


《 Dogears 》

by Flames_of_Madness



Series: Open Book [1]
Category: (cartoon), Merlin (TV), Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro
Genre: Catch Them Unprepared with a Strange Boy, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Crossover, Gen, Magic, Magic be Strange, Original Character(s), Probs gonna turn weirdly violent, Temporary Amnesia, Watch this series go down the toilet, sleep? don't know her, suffer, trollhunters need help, yeet its a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 43,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_of_Madness/pseuds/Flames_of_Madness
Summary: "All that glitters is not gold, but all that is pure most certainly is."The Dark Ages are over. Camelot has been lost. Killahead is scattered. Those that remember recall bright days filled with the laughter of young boys; one with a crown on his head, one with magic in his eyes, and one with gold in his soul. Nowadays, they are nothing but legend and one has long since been forgotten by time. But there has been a disturbance in the balance of magic, and a human hand now wields an amulet bound in sorcery. Things are arising, and the earth quakes in terror.
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander, Draal (Tales of Arcadia)/Original Character(s), Jim Lake Jr./Claire Nuñez
Series: Open Book [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665526
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies, these chapters will be short but many. I do hope you enjoy.

_"I trusted you. I trusted you with my darkest desires and you turned around and stabbed me in the back._

Darkness is unsettling on its own, but when paired with thick fog and the silvery touch of moonlight, it can be completely unnerving. Even those who live in the absence of light know when it is dangerous, when it is inhabited by the cruelest of creatures. It does not matter whether gold treasure hides within the smokey tendrils, they will not step foot in that place.

Soft footsteps echo through the trees, the owner lost and confused. They stumble between ancient oaks, tripping over their feet as they try to comprehend the words whispered within the bark.

_Who are you?_

_Another?_

_You should be dead._

_We thought you were dead._

They frown slightly but continue onward, holding a calloused hand to their heavy head. The matter of how they are here is alarming. How? Why? Stone grinds beneath them as their bare feet drag over a well-used path. It doesn't quite matter to them in this moment, however, the present event is more pressing. Or is it? They find themselves wondering as foreign lights speed toward them. Few words taint their pure tongue as they realise all too late. But the pain is crushing, agonising even. A single name haunts their mind as they stare blankly at the pathway, crimson blood pooling into their vision from their forehead.

_Merlin._


	2. Chapter 2

_"What hurts the most is not the blade between my ribs, but the knowledge that the world has moved on without me."_

  
Light. Pure, blinding, white light. It attacks his overly sensitive eyes and sends waves of agony through his skull. His lips fails to make any sound of protest, produce no vocalisation of his pain. They do not bare his dazzling grin, nor do they display his feral smirk.

He can recall nothing. He cannot remember his days in fields, nor his runs through the city. He cannot see the faces of his brethren or the glimmer of gold in his hands. All he can recollect is the names and voices, words that seem foreign on the tip of his silver tongue.

He blinks, unackowledged tears rolling down his soft cheeks as his soul mourns for his memories. He would wish for them back if he knew what he's lost, if his mind didn't forget to connect to his heart.

"You're awake."

He turns his head to the gentle voice, expression blank of emotion and caution. His eyes glint with longing.

The voice belongs to kind faced woman, her red hair pulled back behind her head. Her shoulders don a white coat that flows down to her knees, but beneath she wears strangely green attire. Large glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, enlarging her chillingly blue eyes. 

He flinches slightly upon noticing the shade of her eyes. Alarm arises within him, but it subsides swiftly as she sits in a chair beside him. There's nothing threatening about her at all, so why had he flinched?

"How are you feeling?"

A common question in such a bizarre situation. He blinks.

The woman sighs softly, glancing down at the paper pinned to the wood board in her hands. Apparently not the response she was hoping for.

"Can you tell me anything about yourself?" she quirks a slim brow at his lack of reply. "What about your name?"

His lips press into a frown and he drags his eyes away from her to stare at the strange ceiling. He remembers his name, but thinks it to be misplaced and a mouthful. And yet there are other titles rattling within his mind.

"Tyler Reynolds," he starts, hardly withholding a grimace at the sound of it, "I think."

She makes a soft sound of approval and scratches something down with her small quill. "Anything else that you know? Age? Home address?"

His mind spins like lightning, ideas crackling like thunder. "Just that I'm seventeen. I... don't really know anything, I'm afraid."

The woman mumbles to herself but smiles kindly at him, reminding him of someone he once knew, though he knows not who. "That's good enough, I should think. Especially for someone who's been hit by a car."

His brows furrow, and confusion is clear on his face. What on this good Earth is a car?

"You suffered head trauma, and I suspect that you're suffering from amnesia as a result," she concludes, regarding him with a gentle glance up. "Get some rest, I'll see what I can find about your history."

As she stands, he offers a tight smile, his first one as far as he can remember, and although it's more of a grimace, she smiles back. Her hand waves a farewell and he watches as she disappears through the doorway.

His smile falls immediately. He knows nothing, but he wants to know everything. It feels like he should know everything. And yet the knowledge remains tucked away in an unreachable corner of his mind, locked up with chains of iron.

Something's so wrong with this. It's so foreign and cruel. Why take away everything from someone with their whole life ahead of them? Why lock up one's entire identity?

He shakes his head ever so slightly, returning to reality with a hard glare in his amber eyes. It's going to take a lot more than a little memory loss to keep him from digging his nose in matters that don't concern him. Even if those matters threaten him in ways he can't imagine.

What alarms him, however, is how natural the altruistic thought feels. 

It's almost as though the instinctual behaviour is ingrained in his soul, awaiting discovery. Maybe not everything has been lost, maybe just the surface memories are gone. He might find what he's missing if he searches hard enough.

The recollections of his moment in the woods crawls into his mind's eye, scrawling images of rotting leaves and gnarled branches in his imagination. Old rags covered his lean frame, brown against blue, and yellowed bandages wrapping his hands in place of gloves. Whispers had filled his ears, ancient in sound and astonished in tone. Only magic could have produced such a noise in an empty forest, but magic does not exist.

He snorts silently at his conclusion and his lips draw back in disgust. Why does it feel so sinful to laugh at the thought?

Perhaps he'll have to wait for his answers, but that doesn't mean he'll sit on his rear and await their arrival. He'll do some digging in whatever time he's offered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyler is a Scottsman. Imagine Michael Bublé with a slight Scottish accent. That's him.

_"We danced all our lives and yet you still forgot me."_

There are times in everyone's life when one wonders if it's all worth it. When days are dark and lacking in hope and joy. Sometimes it can be when there's all the sunshine in the world but a single sentence ruins it all. Tyler Reynolds has grown to know that feeling at all times.

His daily routine is filled with doctors and psychiatrists that poke and prod at him, asking questions that he thinks should really remain unanswered if he wants his life to stay personal. His knowledge is tried and his patience tested, drawing him dangerously close to snapping at the professionals. The only thing that keeps him sane is the occasional visit from Doctor Lake, the name of the woman he had met upon his awakening.

She makes sure to ensure his comfort with her questions and actions, and when she does pop by, she always brings something for him to do and some pleasant conversation. It's always in her best interest to give him someone safe to confide in, and she allows him to chat about what he wants. She knows that he's a child and ensures that he's sheltered enough from the things outside the hospital room.

While she is his light in dark times, he still keeps to himself a lot. He is given schoolwork and lessons to do in his mass of free time. But everything placed in front of him is entirely foreign and bizarre. It makes him furious that he cannot comprehend what everyone else can so easily complete.

And so, he quite often abandons the sheets until Doctor Lake comes by, a time in which he can ask questions and have them simply answered. His amusement is gained through small actions, and he's discovered that he has a very intense mischievous streak in his stoic attitude, having convinced his only friend to replace the sugar in the break room with table salt. In his opinion, it went quite well. The amount of times he watched doctors and nurses spit out their coffee was well worth the lecture he received.

But he's been here for several weeks, and there's no news or discovery of any relations of his. Internally, his soul murmurs depressingly, and he knows that there's no-one for him here. Anyone he knew or loved is gone and he feels no guilt for that, only an emptiness that swallows him whole. Almost as though he failed to do anything about it.

As the door creaks open, he looks up from his pile of equations, a pencil between his teeth as he halts his pondering. Without even seeing their face, he knows who it is. Barbara Lake will step in with a paper bag of food and a mug of coffee, a tired look on her face. Call it a sixth sense, if you will.

And, behold, the woman walks through the door with exactly those items and expression, a small smile on her lips as she regards the boy. 

He doesn't quite know how he does it, but it's instinctual and unintentional. It's just like how he can name what she has for supper down to the individual ingredient without peeking at the food.

"'Evening," he greets kindly, removing the pencil from his mouth to scribble down an answer to his question.

Barbara nods in acknowledgement, taking her usual seat next to him before setting down her meal. "Hello, Tyler."

He hesitates, staring down at his paper with an intense glare. It's not that he's ignoring her, just that he hates mathematics. "How's yer night been?"

She shrugs slightly, but the conflict in her eyes gives her away. "Uneventful for the most part."

Hearing her lie, he drops his pencil and stares at her, frowning slightly. "Now, Doctor Lake, ye know I can tell when ye lie, right?"

She chuckles at his ability and waves off his concern, knowing that he's unintentionally seen it as a bigger issue than it is. "My night has been uneventful, but there's been a discussion of where you're going to go when you're released."

The boy backs down immediately, ducking his head in apology, though his interest is piqued by the mention of his release. "My apologies, then."

A brow is raised in question. This is new. "Do you not want to know anything about it then?"

He meets her eyes with a gaze equal to liquid gold. "Indeed I would, ma'am."

"Since you're nearly old enough to be living on your own, the question of having you placed in foster care has arisen," Barbara starts, speaking softly so she doesn't risk setting him off. "Social services are already being spoken to decide the matter."

Tyler frowns, annoyed by the fact that he's been left out of the loop. It's not that he dislikes the idea of being in the care of someone else, but he hates the fact that he'll end up staying with a stranger.

"But," she continues, a small smile on her lips, "I've considered several things and I think I can take you in."

He brightens up significantly. He knows her. She's no stranger to him and he'd feel at ease under her care.

"It'll take a little while, but it should be best if you stayed with a trained doctor in your condition."

He nods frantically, a sharp grin spreading across his cheeks in his excitement. His soul sings softly, a quiet call of glee that has not been heard for many years. Even the encased corner of his mind hums in harmonic agreement. This is something that his whole being believes is necessary.

"That would be completely and utterly perfect," he says, his baritone voice rumbling in his chest. "Thank ye."

Barbara smiles, taking her coffee in her hands as she settles comfortably. "So long as you're not against sharing the house with one other."

"Ye mean Jim?" he cocks his head, his grin falling into a curious quirk. "That'll be fine, truly."

She nods, taking his words into account. Perhaps a relationship between someone close to his age will help him more than she can. Or maybe this is just a wound for time to heal. "I'll see what I can do," she decides.

He shoots her an appreciative grin before returning to finding 'x'. His digging will have to wait until he's free, but he'll get there. Much sooner than he anticipates.


	4. Chapter 4

_"New beginnings are never easy. Especially when you've lost your identity."_

Tyler Reynolds cannot recall ever being in a car. It feels weird. More like a horseless carriage than anything. The fact that he knows what a carriage is, is rather bizarre.

Even stranger to him, is the city. Barbara tells him that Arcadia Oaks is just a small town, but it's easily twice the size of any city he's been in. Even though it's more spread out, there are more houses than he can hope to count and three times as many citizens. It feels a hundred times larger now that he's out in the street.

"How are you feeling?"

His head twitches, a sign of his acknowledgement as he stares out the window. Everything's so remarkably foreign to him. He feels completely out of place in this grand world.

"Tyler?"

He hums softly, blinking as the sun reflects off a window and into his eyes, "I am well."

Barbara glances over to him and, not for the first time, thinks that he looks older than seventeen. His bronze hair is swept back, glinting lazily in the fading daylight. Amber eyes contrast strongly with his pale features, a defined jawline framing his face. Very distinct features for someone in his late teens.

"Let me know if that changes," she requests, catching his eyes in the glass reflection.

He nods, returning his gaze to the outside world. Perhaps the place has changed since he last had memories. Maybe that's why he feels so out of place here.

The ride is too short for his taste; he wants to see the whole town in detail. So many secrets are missed and passed by, things that require closer inspection. He wants to see everything, common and unseen alike.

A small knapsack that sits at his feet is hauled over one shoulder as he steps out of the vehicle, a hand on the bonnet to balance himself. He's uncomfortable in the shoes given to him; they're two sizes too big and second-hand. Actually, it doesn't seem as though he's ever worn shoes before, they did find him barefoot.

"Come on," Barbara beckons, a hand on the front door, ready for him to enter his new home. "Let's get you settled."

He ducks his head almost shyly, an action of gratitude in his mind, and offers a nearly nonexistent smile to the woman. She's been so good to him. What has the universe done to deserve such a person?

"Jim!" she calls into the seemingly empty house, awaiting an answer. "We're home!"

There's a muffled reply and the sound of someone moving upstairs, the floorboards creaking in the hallway. It seems to Tyler that this is a very relaxed home, despite two hardworking parties, the atmosphere is utterly calm and collected.

A head donned by neatly combed black hair leans over the railing, a curious, yet nervous, expression on the boy's face. He treads downs the stairs with a little caution, unsure of what to make of this tall stranger. His stance holds very little confidence, but the smell of cardamon and sage marks him as someone who is experienced in their role.

The forgetting boy shuffles on his feet, adjusting himself to accommodate for the lack of comfort, outwardly appearing just as awkward as this newcomer. He judges his threat level and the air of discomfort, ultimately deciding that he would be a decent ally in this new world.

"Me name's Tyler Reynolds," he introduces, giving a subtle bow before sticking out his hand to shake.

"Jim Lake," the black-haired boy returns, shaking hands with his new foster-brother.

Barbara watches from afar, pleased with their lack of distrust and seemingly well-met first impressions. Now to just let them adjust to each other's presence.

"I suppose you might like a tour of the place?" Jim suggests, gesturing with a hand to the tidily kept home.

"Why not," he shrugs, his expression neutral. "Be good to get to know the place I'm stayin' in."

The boy starts upstairs again, checking behind him to see if Tyler's following. He is.

"What do you know about Arcadia?" he asks, trying not to cower under his height and piercing gaze.

"Only what yer mother's told me," he says offhandedly. Catching the slight confusion in his foster-brother's eyes, he adds quickly, "Which is practically nothing."

Jim nods slowly, pointing out the bathroom as they pass. "Mom says that you'll be coming with me to school tomorrow."

"Apparently," he hums, eyeing the door that separates them from Barbara's room. "It's not something of me own decision. I will be attending me own classes so I can catch up with lessons."

He cringes at this, finding the thought of learning at such a pace to be frightening and stressful. The newcomer is going to be quite overwhelmed for some time.

Almost as though sensing this thought, Tyler smiles, looking down at the floor as he shakes his head. "That ain't quite true. I'm very good at working in 'ard circumstances."

Jim raises a brow at his response but otherwise shrugs it off, opening a door into an unused room. It's small and quaint, but there's a made bed and a clean desk, making it more than perfect for the studious foster. A set of drawers serves a purpose as storage for the small box of clothes left in the car and a small shelf holds itself above the bed, several dusty books sitting on it.

"I take it this'll be where I'll be stayin'?" the boy questions, stepping into the room to study it closer. "It's nice."

He nods, standing in the doorway as the newcomer sets his bag on the bed and sits down. His amber eyes trail every detail, each chip and crack in the old grey paint memorised. It's unsettling to watch, given how predatory his gaze is.

"It's not much, I'm afraid," Jim rubs the back of his head awkwardly, eyeing the layer of dust on the lights.

"Nah," Tyler dismisses, waving a hand in the air. "Yer fine. It's perfect for me."

"You sure?" the boy questions, only to receive another wave of a hand.

"I've got a place to sleep an' a place to work, that's plenty good for me."

Jim smiles a little, his housemate's a gentle giant. He has nothing to worry about.

The seventeen-year-old grins at the boy, but for entirely different reasons. He'll get to nose about soon. The woods out back looked particularly inviting, just as the main-street alleyways did on the way here. Very little is going to be able to stop his curiosity. May the Triple Goddess have mercy on those who venture to stop him.


	5. Chapter 5

_"Don't judge me by my appearance; you'll be getting whiplash."_

Walking into the hallways after the bell rang was easily the scariest thing Tyler had done since he awoke in the hospital a month ago. He had all of his required textbooks and a personalized schedule that covered all of his catch-up classes in his hands when he stepped out of the principal's office. It was only at that moment that he realised how many students attended Arcadia Oaks High.

"Bloody cabbage heads," he spits as he's practically shoved into another locker. "Prats, the lot of 'em."

He bites back a growl of annoyance, shooting a harsh glare at the student who dared touch him. They scamper off instantly.

"Just need to find the library," Tyler grumbles to himself, looking down at the slip of paper in his hand. "If I can figure out where I am..."

Of course, when he actually needs the student population, they're all gone, vanished from the halls without a trace. He's left on his own, entirely and utterly alone.

His soul grows cold, reminded of a similar event that sends it into shivers of guilt and sadness. It confuses him, but hurts more than anything, nearly making him grasp his chest. Perhaps he was abandoned before his amnesia; he prays that's all it is.

He glances around the corner, finding yet another empty hallway where he had been hoping there would be people. A ball of dust rolls across the floor to emphasize.

"Dreya, have mercy," he prays, crossing his fingers. 

Long story short: she didn't.

Tyler raps his knuckles on the classroom door, sighing at his own inability to find anything. He'd given up his search about five minutes in and decided that it would be better to actually ask someone instead of wandering aimlessly.

"Come in," a calm, rich voice announces, and the sound of students typing stops.

Hesitantly, he opens the door and cautiously meets the eyes of the teacher awaiting him. He quite purposefully avoids looking at the other students, for he can already hear their whispering and gossips.

"Do you have a reason for interrupting my class, or are you just stopping by?"

He shakes his head. "No, sir. I just need directions to the library, sir."

The teacher perks, unfolding his arms and placing his fountain pen in his breast pocket. "You must be Tyler Reynolds, then. Our new student."

"Yes, sir," the boy nods, feeling slightly better that he's been recognised through other means, rather than the whole accident ordeal.

"I'm Mr. Strickler," he smiles a little. "I suggest that you continue down the corridor until you reach the end. Then turn left. It should be the second door on your right."

Tyler sighs in relief and thanks Mr. Strickler, giving a half salute in thanks before turning around. Just as he's about to step out the door, he's halted by the sound of the teacher's voice.

"Before you go, Tyler," he takes his fountain pen back out to make a small note. "What can you tell me about the legend of The Knights of Camelot?"

The bronze-haired boy smirks slightly, turning his head to get a glimpse of the class. "It was a bloody big table, sir."

And he strolls back out, leaving Strickler with a class of giggling grade tens.

《《》》

The thump of five textbooks landing on a table top makes the two boys jump, and Toby chokes on his meatloaf. It's only the realisation that Tyler's sat down beside them that makes them calm down, though Jim tries to help Toby dislodge the chunk of food in his throat.

"Can math solve its own problems?" he asks quite seriously. 

Jim's the first to react, albeit a little slow on the processing of the question. "I don't think so."

He exhales loudly, rubbing his eyes with a hand. Florescent lights aren't doing him any good and words are blurring together because of it.

Just as he's about to sit down at the lunch table, he's yanked back by the handle of his knapsack. Not a yelp leaves him, only a strained growl of surprise.

"Well, well, well," a new voice crows, the owner looking equally as stuck up as he sounds. "We've got ourselves a freshman, fresh off the block."

Tyler gives him a deadpan expression, his irritation multiplied by his hours in the library. "Technically, I'm a senior. Now ge' off me!"

When the hand doesn't release his bag, he reaches back and yanks on it, bringing the opposing boy's arm over his head. He pulls him forward and off balance, positioning his other arm at his elbow. This is a risky place for the bully, one wrong move might result in a fractured or broken arm.

"Don't test me," he says lowly, dropping his victim. 

"Leave him alone, Steve," Toby jumps to Tyler's defense, though not exactly feeling particularly courageous.

"Or what, Domzalski?" 'Steve', the blond-haired bully jibes, taunting the chubbier boy. "What are you gonna do, huh?"

The newcomer places a hand on Toby's shoulder, telling him without words to stand down and sit down. This isn't his fight anyways; this is a fight between the two elders.

"He's not going to do anything," Tyler's voice is warm, directed to his two friends. "But I suggest ye back off. It's only going to end in tears."

The dark tone in his words suggests that those tears won't be his. And the way his eyes are gleaming only solidifies that promise.

"Pick on someone yer own size," the taller boy looms over the other. "At least scrap with someone with an ego as big as yers."

Silence, in the entire courtyard. Some students ready their phones in preparation for a fight. Others walk away from the tense situation, not wanting to get caught up in the conflict. Several just watch from the sidelines, making bets on who will win.

The resolve in Steve's eyes crumbles as he meets the blazing orbs of the student he chose to provoke. His fighting spirit trembles under the intensity of it, and he has to break eye contact to keep himself from chickening out completely. For a split second, his softer self is visible, but he locks it back up immediately, ignoring the lessened glare of the newcomer.

"Walk away, mate," Tyler urges, unfurling his fists. "I don't want a fight on me first day."

To everyone's surprise, that's what happens. Steve turns around and walks out of the courtyard, not a single comeback on his lips. Only the amber-eyed boy can hope to see why he leaves with such little protest.

As he sits down at the table, the boy ignores the gaping stares of his friends, instead opting to start eating his lunch. "By the Triple Goddess, Jim! This is amazing!"

"What the heck just happened?" Toby exclaims, unable to hold it in any longer. 

Tyler blinks, his cheeks stuffed with meatloaf, "Wot?"


	6. Chapter 6

_"Don't judge me by my appearance; you'll be getting whiplash."_

Walking into the hallways after the bell rang was easily the scariest thing Tyler had done since he awoke in the hospital a month ago. He had all of his required textbooks and a personalized schedule that covered all of his catch-up classes in his hands when he stepped out of the principal's office. It was only at that moment that he realised how many students attended Arcadia Oaks High.

"Bloody cabbage heads," he spits as he's practically shoved into another locker. "Prats, the lot of 'em."

He bites back a growl of annoyance, shooting a harsh glare at the student who dared touch him. They scamper off instantly.

"Just need to find the library," Tyler grumbles to himself, looking down at the slip of paper in his hand. "If I can figure out where I am..."

Of course, when he actually needs the student population, they're all gone, vanished from the halls without a trace. He's left on his own, entirely and utterly alone.

His soul grows cold, reminded of a similar event that sends it into shivers of guilt and sadness. It confuses him, but hurts more than anything, nearly making him grasp his chest. Perhaps he was abandoned before his amnesia; he prays that's all it is.

He glances around the corner, finding yet another empty hallway where he had been hoping there would be people. A ball of dust rolls across the floor to emphasize.

"Dreya, have mercy," he prays, crossing his fingers. 

Long story short: she didn't.

Tyler raps his knuckles on the classroom door, sighing at his own inability to find anything. He'd given up his search about five minutes in and decided that it would be better to actually ask someone instead of wandering aimlessly.

"Come in," a calm, rich voice announces, and the sound of students typing stops.

Hesitantly, he opens the door and cautiously meets the eyes of the teacher awaiting him. He quite purposefully avoids looking at the other students, for he can already hear their whispering and gossips.

"Do you have a reason for interrupting my class, or are you just stopping by?"

He shakes his head, "I just need directions to the library, sir."

The teacher perks, unfolding his arms and placing his fountain pen in his breast pocket. "You must be Tyler Reynolds, then. Our new student."

"Yes, sir," the boy nods, feeling slightly better that he's been recognised through other means, rather than the whole accident ordeal.

"I'm Mr. Strickler," he smiles a little. "I suggest that you continue down the corridor until you reach the end. Then turn left. It should be the second door on your right."

Tyler sighs in relief and thanks Mr. Strickler, giving a half salute in thanks before turning around. Just as he's about to step out the door, he's halted by the sound of the teacher's voice.

"Before you go, Tyler," he takes his fountain pen back out to make a small note. "What can you tell me about the legend of the Knights of Camelot?"

The bronze-haired boy smirks slightly, turning his head to get a glimpse of the class. "It was a bloody big table, sir."

And he strolls back out, leaving Strickler with a class of giggling grade tens.

《《》》

The thump of five textbooks landing on a table top makes the two boys jump, and Toby chokes on his meatloaf. It's only the realisation that Tyler's sat down beside them that makes them calm down, though Jim tries to help Toby dislodge the chunk of food in his throat.

"Can math solve its own problems?" he asks quite seriously. 

Jim's the first to react, albeit a little slow on the processing of the question. "I don't think so."

He exhales loudly, rubbing his eyes with a hand. Florescent lights aren't doing him any good and words are blurring together because of it.

Just as he's about to sit down at the lunch table, he's yanked back by the handle of his knapsack. Not a yelp leaves him, only a strained growl of surprise.

"Well, well, well," a new voice crows, the owner looking equally as stuck up as he sounds. "We've got ourselves a freshman, fresh off the block."

Tyler gives him a deadpan expression, his irritation multiplied by his hours in the library. "Technically, I'm a senior. Now ge' off me!"

When the hand doesn't release his bag, he reaches back and yanks on it, bringing the opposing boy's arm over his head. He pulls him forward and off balance, positioning his other arm at his elbow. This is a risky place for the bully, one wrong move might result in a fractured or broken arm.

"Don't test me," he says lowly, dropping his victim. 

"Leave him alone, Steve," Toby jumps to Tyler's defense, though not exactly feeling particularly courageous.

"Or what, Domzalski?" 'Steve', the blond-haired bully jibes, taunting the chubbier boy. "What are you gonna do, huh?"

The newcomer places a hand on Toby's shoulder, telling him without words to stand down and sit down. This isn't his fight anyways; this is a fight between the two elders.

"He's not going to do anything," Tyler's voice is warm, directed to his two friends. "But I suggest ye back off. It's only going to end in tears."

The dark tone in his words suggests that those tears won't be his. And the way his eyes are gleaming only solidifies that promise.

"Pick on someone yer own size," the taller boy looms over the other. "At least scrap with someone with an ego as big as yers."

Silence, in the entire courtyard. Some students ready their phones in preparation for a fight. Others walk away from the tense situation, not wanting to get caught up in the conflict. Several just watch from the sidelines, making bets on who will win.

The resolve in Steve's eyes crumbles as he meets the blazing orbs of the student he chose to provoke. His fighting spirit trembles under the intensity of it, and he has to break eye contact to keep himself from chickening out completely. For a split second, his softer self is visible, but he locks it back up immediately, ignoring the lessened glare of the newcomer.

"Walk away, mate," Tyler urges, unfurling his fists. "I don't want a fight on me first day."

To everyone's surprise, that's what happens. Steve turns around and walks out of the courtyard, not a single comeback on his lips. Only the amber-eyed boy can only hope to see why he leaves with such little protest.

As he sits down at the table, the boy ignores the gaping stares of his friends, instead opting to start eating his lunch. "By the Triple Goddess, Jim! This is amazing!"

"What the heck just happened?" Toby exclaims, unable to hold it in any longer. 

Tyler blinks, his cheeks stuffed with meatloaf. "Wot?"


	7. Chapter 7

_"Help often comes from the most unexpected of allies."_

"And Albion was where?" Mr. Strickler observes the class with disappointment, glancing at the back of the class to where his newest student sits. "Tyler, do you have an answer for me?"

The boy lowers his hand and nods, "Yes, sir. Albion is the earliest known name for Great Britain. It's sometimes used in a poetic sense to refer to the island, but has fallen out of common use in more recent years. It is also the place of origin to the legend of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table."

"Very good," he congratulates, smiling kindly at the frazzled boy. "Can any of you tell me why Tyler, out of all of you, answered my question correctly? Despite his burdened workload?"

A few of the girls giggle next to him, and the boy ducks his head with a flustered expression. This is the seventh question in a row that he's answered, even though he's supposed to be catching up on his mathematics. He's starting to think that nobody actually pays any attention in this class.

"'Cause he's a nerd," someone says a little louder than necessary.

Somewhat meekly, Tyler raises his hand again, staring intensely at the pencil on his desk. "It's because I'm the only one listening, sir."

Strickler blinks at him before returning his attention to the class. He folds his hands behind him and resumes patrolling the classroom as he had been.

"Again, you are correct," he concludes, placing himself at the front of the class. "Which is why you will all place your phones in the bucket at the beginning of next class."

The class of grade tens groans collectively, only interrupted by the ringing of the end of day bell.

"Read chapters six through eight for tomorrow!" Strickler calls over the chatter of students, turning to sit at his desk.

It's a surprise to find that one student remains seated at their desk, papers scattered in front of them. Especially when they don't even acknowledge the empty room.

"Tyler," the boy's head twitches in regard, "are you not going home?"

He shakes his head, scribbling almost frantically on his papers. "It's easier to stay 'ere for a bit."

Strickler approaches him, noting how unbothered he is by the alarming pile of unfinished work. It's rather supernatural, considering that he's gone through about a school year's worth of work in two months and he's completely sane. It doesn't even seem like he's lost sleep, or sacrificed anything for getting work done.

"When was the last time you did something for yourself?" the teacher questions, tilting his head a bit as his student stiffens the closer he gets.

"Yesterday," Tyler hums, attention solely focused on the formula beneath his pencil lead. "I bought meself an ice cream and watched the sun set from the roof."

He smiles at him and pulls his chair out from behind his own desk, stopping it at the boy's desk. He sits down in it and watches the student struggle on his chemistry work.

"Try this," Strickler suggests, gently taking the pencil from his hand and showing him a simpler way of finding the solution. "It doesn't always work, but it makes it significantly easier."

Tyler blinks as he absorbs the new method, breaking out into a wide grin once it clicks.

"Think you can do it?" He challenges the boy, earning himself a mischievous smirk and the loss of the pencil.

"How much do ye wanna bet on that?" His eyes gleam with what might be experience.

Strickler chuckles with amusement, watching the boy scratch down answer after answer. He's a fast learner. The kind of fast that shouldn't be possible without some sort of computer, but here he is, keeping everything on ink and paper instead of on his school laptop.

Actually, the longer he observes the boy, the more suspicious he gets. A scowl starts to take its place on his features, the crease between his brows deepening with each passing second. He can't pin the skill to a specific people or person, but nothing recent comes to mind.

Tyler's grin subsides as he looks up, falling into an unsure frown at the sight of his teacher's scowl. Something within him is unsettled, and it's not due to the man's change in attitude. Something doesn't quite fit between this man's identity and his own. Almost like his soul is trying to get as far from him as possible without abandoning the boy.

"Sir?" He asks, a nervous tone withheld in his voice.

His teacher blinks, snapping out of whatever daze he was in and offers a small smile. All seems well and better on the outside, but on the inside? Tyler's not so sure.

"I'm alright," Strickler gives a small wave of his hand, an action of reassurance he supposes. "Just pondering the day's events."

He makes a small motion with his head, a hesitant gesture of understanding. "Alright, then."

The boy's instinct might not trust the man, but he can't decide whether or not to follow in its lead. He likes Strickler, he's one of the few people he can get along with in a conversation. So, in the end, it doesn't really matter what he thinks, because his mind has already made the decision for him.


	8. Chapter 8

_"Dare to dream. More often than not, they come true."_

Tyler hums softly to himself as he flips the page of his book, hardly sparing a glance up at the girls standing by the bleachers. As he came into school an hour or so early, Mr. Strickler had deemed it best that he take at least a little time off during his spare. And due to that, he discovered a small, blue hardcover book on the top shelf in the library.

'Celtic Myths and Wives' Tales' was proving to be incredibly interesting, and the boy had invested himself within the pages. Stories of dragons and faeries dance in his mind's eye, shaping both mountains and woodland with touches of magic. Complete nonsense, but fun nevertheless. 

"Hey, Tyler."

He lifts the book from his face to meet the eyes of an upside down Claire Nunez, even though, in reality, it's him who's upside down. 

She's smiling at him, as though they're good friends. It's almost cute. Almost.

"Is there somethin' I can do for ye?" He asks, reading the expression on her face.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and holds out a piece of paper to him, "I was wondering if you'd be interested in auditioning for the Romeo and Juliet play we're performing. We've had some difficulty getting boys to have a go."

He studies the small poster for a moment, intrigued by the idea. But he knows how difficult it would be for him to add it into his schedule. As much as he wants to say yes, he cannot do so.

"Sorry, lass," the boy shakes his head and hands it back to her. "I just don't have the time."

Claire nods, taking the paper again, "It's okay, I thought it was a long shot."

He offers a small smile before placing a slip of paper in between the pages of his book and placing it in his knapsack beside him. Moving as quickly as he does is typically considered an unintelligent idea, but he has yet to experience any consequences and so he flips himself, taking his feet off the bleacher above him and dropping them on the floor.

As he stands, he dusts himself off, ridding his leather sports jacket of grime. He's well aware of Claire's friends and a few other girls watching him stretch for a quick run. It makes him chuckle; if only they knew.

Tyler sheds his jacket and places it atop his bag before starting off at a light jog around the gym. He may not need to, but he takes part in activities such as this simply for the sake of doing it. Stopping the habit might be the end of him if he's not careful.

Several girls turn their heads to watch him as he goes past, slowly gaining speed with each lap. They find him enchanting to watch, at least that's what Darci tells Claire, though she doesn't understand their fascination. 

He does actually chuckle when he sees Coach Lawrence drilling Toby on climbing the rope, but continues around a few extra times until the teacher's left him alone for the day. His intentions are purely to help, while keeping out of trouble himself. 

"Would ye like me to help ye?" Tyler asks, approaching the younger boy within his line of vision.

"Yes!" He cries, limp and exhausted. "Please! Anything to keep Coach Lawrence off my back!"

He snorts quietly, stepping up to grab Toby by the arms. There's a method and a result, and he has an idea of what his result will be.

"Grab the rope," he orders, and his temporary student does as asked. "Don't hold the rope by yer feet, hold it by yer knees."

Toby voices his protest, claiming he has the inability to do so. All it does is make the bronze-haired boy more determined to help.

"Just do as I say, an' ye'll be better off," he scoffs, standing back to admire their progress. "Not bad for a firs' attempt."

The boy blinks at him before looking down at his hands.

"Hey! I did it!" He cheers, looking very proud of himself.

"Aye, ye did," Tyler chortles, eyes gleaming as he glances at the clock. "An' with time to spare too."

He waves a farewell to his friend as he strays back to his bag, thoughts filling back up with dancing faeries. If he had the time, he'd stop by at the library and pick up another book or two.

For the first time in a while, his soul feels somewhat content. It doesn't cry out in agony, nor does it curl up in discomfort of a situation. No, it just settles warmly, humming every now and again.

He almost smiles at this, temptation tugging at his lips. But the urge is ripped away without warning, the contented feeling replaced by an intense wave of excitement and bewilderment.

The boy grits his teeth as he leans against the bleachers, practically gasping for breath. He's alarmed and panicked as he throws his knapsack over his shoulder, donning an emotionless mask to fool his fellow students.

The feeling worsens as he enters the empty locker room and he grasps the wall for support. He doesn't notice the hairline cracks forming in the stone.

"Blast it!" He curses, growling at himself. He really needs to learn how to control these attacks.

Tyler swears under his breath as he berates himself for nearly breaking down in public. His scoldings worsen as he heads for the door, equal in intensity to his begging soul as he passes by the showers. So caught up is he in his own mind that he doesn't sense the presence standing in the doorway. 


	9. Chapter 9

_"If you look hard enough, you can see galaxies in the eyes of someone truly in love."_

"Hey, Jim," Tyler greets, taking off his boots at the door as he removes an earphone to hear the boy's response.

"Oh, hi, Tyler!" He calls hurriedly, shoving something into his pocket.

"Oh, Tyler's here?"

"Good evenin', Tobias," the bronze-haired boy snorts, waving a hand to his friend before walking up the stairs to get started on his schoolwork. "The aspirin is in the glasses cabinet if ye need it."

He's truly exhausted. Between trying to catch up on schoolwork and being forced into having some sort of social life, he has little time to himself. And what little personal time he has, he spends taking care of his daily needs.

So he fools himself into believing that he is content through the mind numbing blur of heavy metal music. It tricks his mind into thinking that he's listening for the purpose of entertainment, not focus.

He doesn't necessarily enjoy the genre, but it's the only music that makes him concentrate and keeps him from getting carried away. Personally, he finds classical to be very moving and folk just feels homely.

Tonight, he has an archive's worth of physics and biology work to do. Not to mention the pile of half-finished English essays amassing on his desk. Guess he'll have to read up on the topics too.

Tyler groans loudly, trying to release his pent up frustration without disturbing the boys downstairs. It turns into a small whine as he rubs his eyes.

Maybe if he gouged out his eyes, he could claim an inability to complete his schooling due to lack of sight... Knowing the US education system, they'd call bluff and make him do it all anyways. 

"Bloody hell," he moans, dropping his knapsack on the bed.

Papers cover every surface, many stuffed inside large binders that have replaced the fiction books on the shelf. They're organised by subject and topic, and collected in piles by grade level. Notes are written in blue, red, and black ink with important terms highlighted in yellow. It's an absolute nightmare but it works.

The only clear space is the bed, but even that looks neglected, like it was made several weeks ago and not used since. Small items of little importance are sheltered in a wood box, faeries and serpents carved in the sides; a gift from Barbara after she discovered his fascination with Celtic stories.

Tyler glares at his schoolwork for a few moments before actually pulling it out of his bag. He can do the work, it's just the length time it takes him to do it all.

"Screw this nonsense," he mutters, mostly to himself as he picks up his pencil.

He chews on the eraser for a second as he processes the questions. There'll be nothing left of it at this rate.

A snort leaves him as he scoffs at the work; it's just a bunch of repeated equations, really simple stuff.

Through his blasting music, he hears Toby scream and the entire house shakes. The screaming continues until someone, presumably Jim, shuts him up.

Tyler removes an earphone. "Are ye two alright?" he calls.

There's a few moments of tense silence before he gets a response.

"Yeah, we're good!" Jim shouts up the stairs. "No need to worry about us!"

The boy can't help but feel as though his foster-brother's voice sounds a little strained. "What are ye doin'?"

Another silence, though he can hear hushed whispers from downstairs.

"Just watching a show!"

"About what?" Tyler can't help but ask, a little confused as to why the boys aren't just talking as they usually do.

"Uh," Jim hesitates. "Trolls!"

He chuckles to himself, placing down the papers in his hands for a second. "In Norse stories, Trolls were known to steal socks. But only the left ones!"

He can can hear Toby mutter to himself, "What's with that?"

The boy shakes his head, resuming his schoolwork for the time being. At least until he runs out of crisps.

The equations for his physics are easier than before, allowing him to skim through quickly without much thought. And biology only calls for a short skim through the textbook for it to be answered. That leaves five English essays and a reflection paragraph. 

He uncurls his legs from under him, stretching out like a cat as his joints pop. A yawn leaves his lips and he shakes his head. With so little left to do, he should be sorted for the night.

"Boys?" Barbara calls from downstairs, having just walked in through the door. "It's me."

Tyler pulls out his earphones for good and jumps to his feet, taking the small interruption as a chance to take a break. "Phone's on the coffee table," he tells her as he treads down the stairs.

"Ah, thank you, Tyler," she smiles at him and ruffles hair, taking amusement from the face he pulls.

He ducks his head in the bizarre motion that expresses his acknowledgement before sliding into the kitchen to refuel. "I think Jim might 'ave gone out with Toby."

Barbara nods as she considers this, brushing it off as a small thing. "Alright. Call me if he doesn't come home before ten."

"Aye, I will," the boy promises, taking a huge gulp of water. "Fare well."

"Have a good evening, Tyler," she smiles, returning back outside to her car.

He sighs, resting his forehead on the cold kitchen counter. It just takes a little too much out of him to do this much work. He can manage ridiculous loads of worksheets with no issue, but the problem arises when he has to go in to school at quarter to seven just to get the help he needs. Most nights he's running on less than five hours of sleep, and it's having a very poor effect on him.

"Back to work, then," he mumbles, draining his glass and popping his spine.

He jumps in surprise when his soul hums, and looks down at his chest as though it'll start leaving his body. It doesn't go insane like it did yesterday, but seems to almost dance in joy. He's filled by a nearly homey sense, a form of contentness that he wishes he doesn't have to fake on a day to day basis.

Tyler shrugs lightly, smiling to himself as he wallows in the sensation. He completely ignores Jim and Toby as they stare at him in confusion, not quite processing their presence. He doesn't even flinch when his soul spasms slightly as he walks back into his room.

He does, however, stop what he's doing when the house quakes beneath his feet.

"Jim, ye alright?" He hollers, snorting in pain as he clips the door frame in his rush to reach the stairs.

"Yeah!" his foster-brother assures. "Just knocked the bookshelf!"

"Do ye need a hand?" 

"No! We're good!"

Tyler frowns slightly, scowling at the last step he can see. He feels like he's being left out of the loop again, only this time, it's something much bigger than foster care. But what could a fifteen year old hide that's so massively important?

He snorts, shaking his head before retreating back into his room. If it's something that's going to disrupt his studies, he wants nothing to do with it. He can live within his comfort zone for a while longer.


	10. Chapter 10

_"Fate is not the same as Destiny. Fate is not yet decided, Destiny has been set since the birth of the world."_

  
Tyler frowns as he looks down the street at the trail of toppled telegraph poles. He'd just been on a night stroll through the town to get some air when he came across what appeared to be a literal path of destruction. A path of unnatural damage that makes his very being panic.

 _"Dè air an Talamh?"_ He mutters, bending over to examine the cracked wood. He doesn't stray any closer to the sparking wires.

How, is the biggest question. A car certainly can't cause all this without leaving some kind of remains. And it wouldn't be able to handle this much abuse.

He steps over the fallen pole, scowling at each one with confusion. Even the tarmac is cracked and broken under his feet, but as for the cause, he hasn't the faintest idea.

Out of everything he's witnessed in this small town, this is by far the strangest. And that's saying something, considering the sights he's seen.

 _"Ifrinn fuilteach,"_ he says upon finding a long trail of shattered road. Whatever did this was huge.

Seeing what appears to be a large claw marks, he grows unsettled, feeling as though eyes are watching him from every dark nook and cranny between houses. It's a little more reassuring to be able to see the lights of Eli's house on. But it's incredibly unnerving.

Lost in his thoughts, he's caught off guard when his feet kick something that's not gravel. His eyes snap down to study the object and he recoils upon recognising it.

"Toby's bag?" he picks it up and several empty taco bags fall out of the pockets. "No doubt."

Tyler looks down the street in concern, narrowing his eyes on an abandoned bike. His heart leaps in fear and worry, and he takes off towards it, praying to Deya that it's not what he thinks it is.

 _"Oh, ifrinn,"_ he frets, examining the crumpled item in confusion. _"Dè anns na nèamhan a thachair?"_

The boy prays wholeheartedly as he continues along the trail at a sprint, fear clenching his heart. He worries for his friends, for he cannot imagine what might have possibly occurred to them.

"By the Triple Goddess, may they be safe," he murmurs, completely and utterly uncaring for his own safety. "If not, may I be able to save 'em."

Even as he enters the small stretch of wood between the neighbourhood and canal, a place where he feels at home the most, he does not stop, and the sight of multiple fallen trees makes him increase his speed tenfold. Not a single breath goes wasted, as his body needs all the air he can get as he exerts every muscle in his body.

The woodland ends just as suddenly as it began, and he nearly throws himself over the edge of the concrete canal with all of his momentum. It's a miracle that he catches himself before he tumbles downhill.

 _"Deagh nèamhan!"_ He cries, waving his arms about to regain his balance. _"Ifrinn!"_

His foot slips, and he follows it in its downward motion, rolling down the steep decline. Cries of pain and panic echo off the canal walls. It's possible to hear his pained curses from the neighbouring streets. 

In his seemingly endless tumble, his heart is given the chance to question his recent use of a foreign language while his mind hollers in terror. He'd only started using the strange phases this morning after finishing another Celtic book.

He gives an excruciating yelp of pain as his body crashes at the bottom, feeling his shoulder crack from impact. _"Sèid mi!"_

Small whimpers and whines leave him as he squirms, gasping for breath as minuscule tears form in the corn of his eyes. He's very sure that he just, at the very least, fractured his shoulder, and the pain is nothing like he imagined. It leaves him scrambling for whatever coherent swears he can come up with, even though half of them make very little sense.

"Death woulda been kinder," he hisses between gritted teeth, clutching his injured arm.

He says this in a halfhearted attempt to make himself smile, but it does nothing but make him feel colder. Like a frosty chill settled over his bones and attempted to punish him for something unforgivable.

His teeth chatter and he grunts as he sits up, finding the movement more painful than it should have been under normal circumstances. If only he hadn't have gone for that walk.

But then he would never have found the trail...

He jumps to his feet, completely ignoring his injury now that he's remembered his very reason for still being out of the house. Jim! Toby! He has to find out if they're alright.

"Boys?" He calls out, praying for a response. He gets none.

His scowl deepens and he digs out his phone from his pocket, forever grateful that it survived the tumble. He scrolls down until he finds what he wants and hastily presses the button. His foot taps impatiently as the phone rings.

"Hello?"

Tyler's shoulders drop in relief and a heavy sigh escapes his nose. "Jim, where the hell are ye? Are ye alright?"

There's a bit of static over the line, but the boy's not concerned about that. "U-uh, yeah, yeah. I'm good, I'm alive."

He frowns, stopping his tapping, "Where are ye?"

"O-out!" He stammers and the boy bares his teeth in an expression of unbelief. "I'm out with Toby. I'll be back a bit later than usual. Bye!"

Tyler opens his mouth to retort, only to hear the dial, and snaps his jaw shut in annoyance. Blast the fool, he has no idea how worried his foster-brother was.

He growls lowly and stuffs the phone back in his pocket before wincing at the pain it sends through his arm. That's something he should probably get looked at. There's no use in standing around now that he knows Jim and Toby are decently okay.

And so he makes his way back up the canal side, ignoring his soul as it trembles under the gaze of something new. He's completely unaware of the glowing eyes following his every step.


	11. Chapter 11

_"A fight without cause is a fight without reason."_

It was wounding to his pride to ask Barbara to take him to the hospital when she got home. He would have walked himself, but the building was a good hour or so away on foot and in the dark, it wouldn't have been a very bright idea.

Watching the woman fret over him was very humiliating and even more so when he told her what had happened, leaving out the parts in which he found the path of destruction. Informing her of that would have only made her even more worried.

So, after waiting in the hospital for only an hour—a result caused by his previous experience of amnesia—and receiving strict instructions not to strain himself, he returned to the house with Barbara still doting on him. That was where they found Mr. Strickler, waiting by the door for a response. They had left the lights on after all.

"Good evenin', Mr. Strickler," Tyler greets with a wave of his right hand. 

"Ah, hello, Tyler," he replies before stepping aside to meet Barbara, "Mrs. Lake."

"Mr. Strickler," she smiles before unlocking the door and allowing him inside.

The boy glances between them with raised brows and a hint of amusement on his thin lips. It's not hard to see it. You'd have to be blind to avoid it entirely, and since he decided against gouging out his eyes the other day, he has no problem seeing the kind spark.

Or maybe it's another of those strange abilities he has. Just like being able to list the food items in a meal with only a sniff, perhaps he can sense feelings before someone expresses it for themselves.

"Are you coming in, Tyler?" His foster-mother asks with a slight teasing tone. "Or are you planning on sleeping outside tonight?"

While the idea is somewhat appealing, he steps inside without a second thought and abandons his boots by the door as usual. He has no interest in receiving another lecture.

"How did you manage that?" Strickler asks his student with curiosity and concern, gesturing to his arm.

"He took a tumble down the canal," Barbara explains, shooting a scolding look at the boy. "He's lucky it's only a fracture."

 _"Gràdh math, boireannach,"_ he mutters, sighing to himself.

Strickler's eyes seem to light up at this comment, though it's clear he doesn't understand what was said. To him, things have just clicked into place, and everything makes sense.

"I'm sure it was an accident, right, Tyler?" The teacher smiles kindly at the boy.

He nods, walking past the man toward the kitchen where his newest book resides. Schoolwork can wait until the painkillers kick in, for now he'll relax as best he can with the leather bound book on Arthurian legends.

While the adults are talking—something about Jim and a play—the boy settles down at the dining table. Books are far more interesting than reality in his opinion, which is what leads him to delve into such depths of forgotten literature. Legends and myths have to have a point of origin, so why not look at the Holy Grail of all legends to seek the source?

"Were ye aware that Merlin was only half mortal?" He asks offhandedly, not looking up from the weathered pages of his book. 

Barbara chuckles lightly, looking over at the boy, "No, I was not."

"I believe it was his mother who was mortal," he continues, unburdened by Strickler's appalled expression. "But it's not really known who his father was."

"Some say he was a faerie, correct?" The visiting teacher comments, thanking his host for the cup of tea handed to him.

"Some," he agrees, flipping a page. "I don't think so."

"How come?"

It's only at this moment that Tyler pulls his gaze from the fading ink to meet the eyes of the two adults. His eyes swim with with an emotion that can't be explained, like molten metal and running water, nostalgia combined with heartbreak. He doesn't seem to be aware of this.

"If he were a faerie, every tale an' story would tell of it. But none of 'em do. They're all half-truths an' falsities," he shakes his head slowly, lowering his gaze slightly. "I think he's somethin' special."

Strickler blinks under the intense warmth of the boy's gaze, something violent flickering within. A warning, perhaps a threat. He doesn't know, but it unsettles him and makes his belief firmer than before. 

He adjusts his collar with a finger, glancing briefly at the book in the boy's hand, or rather, the boy's hand itself. It's covered in glyphs and old runes, wrapping once around his wrist in an artistically written bracelet and running down the back of his hand to encircle his middle finger. Maybe drawn in pen, but the meaning is no less unnerving.

"What's that on your hand, Tyler?" The man questions boldly. "I don't think I saw it during class today."

The aforementioned boy looks down at his hand and examines it briefly in the light, "Somethin' I did when I got home. Thought it looked wicked."

He nods slowly, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from Tyler. As much as the boy fascinates him, he's not here to observe and test him. No, for now his concern lays elsewhere.

The boy returns to his book, frowning a little as something within him flips in a warning. His teacher's inner demeanour has changed, though he doesn't know why. He wants to know why. But his destiny is not set on the path that tells him.

Sometime during the evening, Jim returns, though his foster-brother pays no mind to him. He's aware of his presence, but he's not going to talk to him until he receives an explanation for his earlier behaviour. He put too much energy into worrying over him and got himself injured in his concern.

"To be or not to be, right?" The black-haired boy chuckles nervously, and even though his friend pays little attention, the statement earns himself an amused snort.

"That would be 'Hamlet'," he concludes, grinning with a false smile, "not 'Romeo and Juliet'."

The fifteen year old flinches a little, once again seeing the almost predatory gleam in Tyler's eyes. It's a sight he hasn't seen since their first day of school together, and it scares him slightly.

Barbara offers the visitor another cup of tea, something he turns down after experiencing her tea-making skills the first time. "Thanks. I don't want to overstay my welcome."

"I would not say ye are," Tyler mutters, mainly to himself.

"My phone, Mrs. Lake," he hands the woman a small paper, intended for school purposes.

"Please, call me Barbara."

The eldest of the two boys smiles slightly while the younger pulls a face.

"Barbara," Strickler kisses the back of her hand, causing Jim to cringe. "Delighted to meet you."

As the door closes, Tyler speaks up, raising his voice so both can hear him, "I'd say that went rather well. All things considered."

"What things?" Jim asks him, only to receive no response beside the sound of turning pages.

It's not that he wants to turn a blind eye to his housemate, but he needs answers first. He needs an explanation of what happened this evening and why he found Toby's bag and bike abandoned on a trail of destruction. And he needs it to come from the aspiring chef himself.

The forgetting boy scowls at the words in his book, glaring at the details that contradict his own knowledge. He knows everything about these myths and yet they very often clash with what he believes. Even now, he questions the book's authenticity, but he knows it was written as an exact transcript of the original.

 _"Chan eil mi breugach..."_ he mumbles, flipping the page again. "I swear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've nearly completed this story as a whole, so the rest of it should go up pretty quickly.


	12. Chapter 12

_"A fight will never be fair. One must learn that when entering the world."_

"I know contemporary media might lead you to believe European history is full of swords, sorcery, and scandal." Tyler's eyes glitter with wonder as he listens to the museum's curator. "I assure you, the truth is far more interesting, and there's no better place to start than Renaissance Era pottery."

The curiosity dies in each member of the class, smothered by the disappointment of the tour. This makes the accompanying boy chuckle. In moments such as this, he sees it as a chance to explore the reality of history. Everything has the possibility to be exciting and new, and secrets are revealed under different views.

"Since we have limited time, Ms. Nomura, perhaps it's best if they explore the museum on their own," Strickler suggests, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Without a second of hesitation, the class scatters into their own section of the ancient historical artifacts. Leaving none but a party of one.

"Are you not going to join the others, Tyler?" The boy's teacher questions.

"Nah," he shakes his head, turning his attention to the curator. "I've got some questions for Ms. Nomura."

The woman appears pleasantly surprised by this and claps her hands together. "Fire away. We've got all the time in the world."

He smiles as she leads him inside to walk among the exhibits. This is something that he's been looking forward to all week, and he made sure to clear his schedule so he could have as much time here as he needs.

"Well," he starts, pulling out his phone to record their conversation, "I'd like to start by asking ye what ye know about the legends of King Arthur."

She smiles sweetly at him, almost too sweetly, but he pays no mind. "Why, that would depend. I am quite familiar with Merlin and the Round Table, but individual tales I'm afraid I lack the knowledge of."

Tyler nods in acknowledgement, using the moment to change some of his questions. "King Arthur was rather young when he received the throne, correct?"

"In most stories, yes," she assures him. "His age varies from tale to tale, but he's typically perceived as a young man in his twenties."

"Alright," he stops momentarily in front of an old tapestry. "Do ye know whether Merlin was a wizard, warlock, or sorcerer? I've heard there's quite the distinction, but I can't be sure."

For a moment, she ponders this, observing the tapestry in front of them. It's faded from age, but clearly holds a visual of a great battle. "In mainstream media, he's made out to be a wizard, but the legend insists that he was born with magic. That leaves us with two options. Both sorcerers and warlocks had the innate ability to perform magical acts but warlocks communed with forbidden creatures to harness their power while sorcerers did not."

The boy lets this sink in for a minute, analyzing the details of the fabric. "But Merlin conversed with magical creatures quite commonly. Would that not make 'im a warlock?"

"Yes, but forbidden does not necessarily mean magical," Nomura corrects. "He may have dealt with many magical creatures but not the forbidden."

He frowns, tapping his chin with the top of his phone. "I coulda sworn I read that he were a warlock."

The curator chuckles lightly, eyeing him subtly before continuing down the hallway. He doesn't move for a few seconds, staring intently at a gleaming yellow thread before turning away to catch up to her.

"How many knights do ye reckon were at the Table?" He queries with curiosity. "'Cause it would've been a bloody big table if there were as many as some people think."

"I agree," she laughs. "It would have needed to be quite large."

He quirks a lip, a small and sharp smile. "I don't want to imagine 'ow much it cost to build."

She shakes her head to clear the thought. "There would have possibly been around ten knights, though it doesn't matter if you add or remove Arthur himself in the equation."

Tyler makes a mental note as he glances around the exhibits. A lot of the items on display are fakes, placed out so people don't accidentally or purposefully damage the priceless artifacts. What is real, is placed behind glass to preserve them and lengthen their shelf life.

"Are these real suits of armour?" he points out two iron forged sets of knight armour.

"Indeed they are..." she hangs on the sentence, realising now that he hasn't introduced himself.

"Oh, sorry," he apologises, sticking his phone in his pocket to shake her hand. "Tyler Reynolds, ma'am."

"Zelda Nomura," she returns, shaking his hand firmly before returning to the topic of conversation. "The suits of armour are indeed real, Mr. Reynolds. They were acquired from Western Scotland several years ago."

When she looks over, the boy's already moved on to the next exhibit, a small display of ancient jewellery. It's shocking how fast he moves when he wants to.

"Oh, hey, Tyler," one of the students greets from behind them. Jim Lake, if she recalls.

He doesn't make any indication of hearing him, and remains standing motionless as he studies the objects on display. The student returns to his conversation with his lady-friend with a disappointed mumble. 

"Do you two not get along?" She queries, curious as to the relationship between them.

"Usually," he comments, his admiring gaze locked on a golden ring. "Jim's me foster-brother. But last week he worried me sick and I got meself injured lookin' for him. He still hasn't told me where he was."

She makes a motion of acknowledgement. Things appear to be going well for them both, Strickler and herself at least.

"These items are gold, correct?" He points out several small pieces of jewellery, an expression of concentration folding creases between his brows.

"I believe so," Nomura hums, clasping her hands behind her. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wanted to check," he says thoughtfully. In truth, it was a fascination and calling that intrigued him.

"Alright, then. Is there anything else you wish to ask?"

Tyler turns to her, an unrecognisable glint in his eyes that makes her feel insignificant. "Indeed. Do ye not think that King Arthur, whether he is a legend or was actually real, would pass off an old fool's words?"

The curator blinks, both startled and confused by his question. "I'm afraid that I don't quite understand."

"If Merlin were an old feller, do ye really think King Arthur would've listened to 'im?" He seems genuinely curious, but his eyes tell a completely different story. As though he already knows the answer.

"Considering all things," she has to avert her eyes from his, the intensity of them quite alarming, "I don't believe that. But it is up to the historians to decide such things."

"Merlin woulda been quite young if he really became the Court Warlock," a low tone enters the boy's voice and the hidden threat is extraordinarily clear. "And the term 'forbidden' woulda been up to the people of that era to define."

Nomura frowns at the boy as he steps away, and watches him end the recording session on his phone. He's an oddity. Someone who doesn't belong in Arcadia. They need to keep a spare eye on him.

 _"Latha math dhut!"_ Tyler smiles kindly, all darkness clears from his features and he doesn't even seem aware of what he's done. And in reality? He isn't. The small part of him that is, is locked away in iron chains.


	13. Chapter 13

_"Throw a stone at the lake of time and you will surely do more damage than good. Each ripple effects everything differently."_

Tyler snorts as something rings next to his ear. In his sleepy and unaware state, he slams his hand down on it and chucks it away from him. He pays it no more mind as he nestles comfortably under the covers again.

 _"Sìo—!"_ He scrambles out of bed, knocking himself flat as he fumbles for the phone.

Luckily for him, it's still ringing.

 _"Halò!"_ He curses himself and corrects his language, "Hello."

"Hey, Tyler," a tired and worn out voice answers him, making him frown.

"Barbara?" He questions, hissing as he jostles his fractured shoulder. "What happened? What time is it?"

"It's sometime around midnight," she replies softly. "I'm not sure. I haven't looked at the clock yet."

"Is everythin' alright?" The boy yawns as he sits up.

"No, no it's not," the woman admits, and he can hear her getting into the car. "Jim and Toby got themselves arrested."

"What?!" There's no doubt that he's awake now, his concern overriding his need to sleep.

"They broke into the museum," her voice is strained and he can't imagine the affect this is having on her. "I don't know what they thought they were doing, but they broke into the museum and got arrested."

Tyler sighs, cracking his neck to relieve the stiffness in his spine. "I suppose ye want me to be ready for when ye get back with 'em?"

"Please," she asks, her tone so close to a beg that he nearly whimpers.

"It'll be no problem," he assures, smiling slightly in hopes that it will affect the tense atmosphere. It doesn't.

"Thank you, Tyler."

He shakes his head despite knowing that she can't see him. "Don't thank me, Barbara. Just let me know when ye pick 'em up."

"I will," she promises. And just like that, the dial follows.

The boy puts down the phone on his lap and rubs his eyes with his massive nightshirt sleeve. What in the world have they got themselves into? And why won't anybody tell him why?

《《》》

A warm mug of cocoa rests in his hand as he curls up on the sofa, awaiting the arrival of his small family. Steam rises slowly from his drink, though he finds it more of an item of grounding than of comfort.

The clock on the wall keeps ticking, telling the time as it was designed to always do. Two-twenty in the morning. More than an hour has passed since he last spoke to Barbara, and that was when she had picked them up. Now he's more than anxious.

Actually, maybe anxious isn't the right word. Anticipating. Impatient. Possibly annoyance. They rattle around in his head like church bells, echoing forever and growing louder.

Headlights light up the road and Tyler nearly ignores it, thinking it to belong to a neighbour. Oh, how quickly he places that mug on the coffee table when he realises it's not.

He opens the door before he can actually see anyone and waits for them to come through the door. His eyes light up when he sees that Jim's physically okay.

"Jim!" His foster-brother doesn't respond and walks past him with his eyes cast downward. "Jim?"

Barbara steps in behind them and locks the door, having no words left at all after the car ride. She doesn't know what will transpire between the two boys, and she prays that it ends better than her talk with Jim.

"Come on, mate, answer me!" Tyler grabs the boy's arm and tries to make him turn around.

Jim rips his arm out of his grip and glares, "You didn't answer me for over a week, so why should I?"

The boy visibly recoils, the hurt on his face raw with stripped emotion, "What?"

"You heard me!"

The hurt reshapes into outrage just as easily as clay can be modeled, "I wanted answers, Jim!"

"Don't we all," Jim mutters, his disappointment at himself being redirected at his housemate.

"I was worried!" Tyler roars, voice cracking as he confronts the younger boy. "I was concerned and I wanted ye to tell me what was goin' on!"

"I didn't ask for you to worry about me, Reynolds!" 

That snaps it. 

Maybe it's the use of his last name, or just the final straw, but it ends the same either way. The pain in the forgetting boy's eyes is raw enough to make anyone hurt, and the expression he wears is just heartbreaking.

Jim regrets every word.

"Tyler, I—" he's interrupted by a threatening growl that leaves the lips of his elder.

"I get it," he snarls, averting his eyes to glare at the ground. "Just be sure to tell a feller next time."

With the resounding bang that echoes through the whole house, Jim sighs into his hands, wondering what in the world he has done. 


	14. Chapter 14

_"Atrox melior dulcissima veritas mendaciis."_

The next morning, Jim hadn't seen Tyler. He heard him, though. Pretty hard to miss the incoherent phrases as he passed his room.

He didn't see him at school either. At least not fully. The most he saw was brief glimpses from the corner of his eyes. And each glimpse told him all he needed to know. 

The elder boy had red eyes, bloodshot from a lack of sleep or crying himself out, he didn't know. He constantly wore a restless expression and held distrust behind his eyes. His schedule was interrupted by an extended visit to Strickler's office, where he apparently spent most of the school day.

He didn't even stop by his locker. If he had, Jim would have known—his class was right across from it.

All Jim knew was that he had opened a wound he couldn't heal. 

The letter in his hand had become wrinkled and creased hours ago, worn out from being pulled out of a bag so many times to be delivered, only to be shoved back in when the opportunity vanished. He stares forlornly at it, turning it over in his hands.

"You have to make it up to him, Jimbo," Toby suggests, trying to help his friend as best he can.

"Yeah, but how?" He turns to him, head in hand. "It's not exactly like he'll let me get close enough to apologise."

"He collects those things, doesn't he?"

Jim frowns, confused, "What things?"

It's Toby's turn to frown. How could the boys have lived in the same house for two months and he not notice? "Rings and stuff. Didn't you know that?"

"No?" The black-haired boy says in confusion. 

"He picks up tons of stuff like that," his friend continues. "I think it was a hobby or something. Kind of how he collected those old books."

Jim nods, sighing to himself as he stares blankly at his laptop screen. Perhaps a stop by the old thrift store is in order; that is where Tyler frequented on the weekends.

"You just got to show him that you mean it."

"Yeah," he sighs as he looks back down at the letter, "I guess I do."

《《》》

Jim Lake was in the middle of cleaning the dishes when his foster-brother came in through the front door. 

Tyler doesn't even glance over at the boy, just shuts the door and kicks off his boots before thundering upstairs. He ate with Eli less than an hour ago and he has no interest in conversing with his housemate tonight.

He doesn't know what to feel. Pain, for what felt like a betrayal. Anger, for being lead to believe that he had been accepted. Sadness, for the loss of the only positive constant in his life. His soul is conflicted, or rather, conflicting with his mind. It tells him that he will recover and that he should forgive and forget, while his mind tells him to hold this where he can see it and wait for life to blow it over.

His door slams behind him and he drops his bag on the floor without a second thought. He considers the words of his mentor, the person he confides in the most. 

_"Perhaps you should let Jim speak for himself," Strickler suggests, hands folded on his desk in front of him as he observes the broken student slumped on the visitor's chair._

_"It doesn't feel as though I should," the boy admits, playing with a small gold-coloured ring on his index finger._

_"I'm sorry?" His teacher raises a brow. This is not the behaviour he had been expecting._

_"He hurt me more than I think he realises," Tyler explains, turning his gaze to watch the clouds in the sky. "I want 'im to know how it feels."_

_He considers this for a moment, gauging what the best course of action might be. This situation leaves him stranded between two worlds, doing his job to help the student that has come to him and keeping the Trollhunter separated from someone potentially dangerous. He decides that the former will end better for them all in the long run._

_"I think the decision is for you to decide, Tyler," Strickler offers kindly, haven given the only advice he has. "It must be you that chooses what to do."_

_"I—" the boy sighs, deflating slightly, "—I understand. Thank ye, Mr. Strickler."_

_He smiles lightly, offering his comfort as he stands. His student tries to follow his lead, but he places a hand on his good shoulder as he passes, shaking his head. "Stay here as long as you need, I'll check in on you at lunch."_

_A breath of relief leaves his lips as he slumps back into his seat, giving a timid, but thankful, look to the man._

"Couldn't it be someone else for a change?" Tyler sits on his mattress and plays with his ring as he stares up at the ceiling. "By Dreya, why must it be me?"

A knock at his door brings him out of his thoughts, and he immediately knows that Jim's standing on the other side, wearing a guilt-ridden and nervous expression with an envelope in his hands. 

_"_ _Thalla,"_ he says, loud enough for the younger boy to hear him. "I don't want to talk to ye."

"Look," Jim's voice is small and apologetic, "I-I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am."

The boy strides over to the door and cracks it open, his amber eyes cold and chilling as they meet Jim's startled blue. "Sorry doesn't fix anythin'."

He sighs in defeat, shoulders slumping as he accepts this fact. His fingers trace the edge of the envelope before he decides to go through with it. The young cook hands over his letter, the longest out of all of the ones he's written. "I know. Just take this."

Tyler takes it out of his outstretched fingers with some reluctance, noting the weight of it. He stares at his housemate for a moment longer before shutting the door and stuffing the item in his jacket pocket. It can wait until later. He needs to process everything first.

《《》》

The moment he arrived home, he had gone straight into the kitchen to make himself a cup of earl grey. It had both surprised him and put him at an unnerved ease to find Ms. Nomura sharing small talk and a cup of tea with his foster-mother. Apparently, she had brought some of her own tea over so she could have the chance to speak with Jim.

The boy politely declined and made his own cuppa. He could smell how sweet her tea was and it made him feel slightly ill as he passed. He wasn't going to stay down here anyways, so there was little point in having some of her tea and disappearing. That would be highly impolite.

Tyler apologised, and out of a newly formed habit—that appeared out of nowhere that morning—kissed his foster-mother's cheek before scampering upstairs with his thermos. Her reaction was a small smile that warmed his heart. She was pleased that he was growing ever more comfortable in her home.

Now, he sits on the roof, his tea in his hand as he stares at the stars, wondering which ones are departed souls and which ones are real. Classical music blasts into his ears from a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, blocking out the outside world with little incentive.

The envelope in his breast pocket is heavier than ever, and he can't understand why. Maybe it's the misplaced sense of foreboding. The feeling that something's terribly wrong even though the world is as right as rain.

He sighs, placing his thermos between his legs to keep it from falling down to the street below and removes the letter from his jacket, examining it in the little light he has. Eventually, he breaks the seal and tips it sideways, palm placed underneath.

A steel ring, almost square in shape, slides into his hand, small patterns encircling around the outer rim. It's significantly lighter than he thought it might have been, and probably cost an extensive amount despite its clear experience in a thrift store. The polished sheen is impressive, and the strokes of a cleaning cloth lightly detail the metal. Jim must have spent an awful lot of thought on it.

The boy considers the rest of the contents for a moment before pulling the massive letter from the envelope and reading the first few lines. He snorts in frustration and agitation, ripping his eyes from the page to glare at the heavens. His hand crumples the papers with little effort and with a short cry, he chucks it out onto the street. It lands in a puddle of leftover rain from the afternoon and soaks up all the water, leaking black ink across the paper.

He winces the moment he realises what he's done. _"Dè a rinn mi?"_

Tyler regrets the action immediately, casting his eyes downward to the ring in his hand. Why is Fate such a cruel mistress?


	15. Chapter 15

_"Words will scratch more hearts than swords."_

Tyler yawns, stretching out his spine as he walks through the halls of Arcadia Oaks High. Nightmares had plagued him throughout the night, and he found himself seeking the comfort of the furnace when he awoke sometime around three in the morning. Watching the glowing embers of coal was what had eventually calmed him. That and the faint smell of something familiar.

His mind runs in circles as he tries to identify it, bringing him to scowl at his feet. It's not purposeful, just an natural expression that occurs when he thinks.

With every step, his thoughts return to the word 'petrichor', and a distant memory of sitting in the woods after nightfall. Each time he thinks of it, it grows more detailed, and it starts to feel real.

He can feel the damp soil between his fingers and toes; hear the rustling oaks as they whisper among themselves in their own language. The smell of rain is not quite overpowering, but it's there, haunting his memory with a touch like silk.

"Watch where you're going, Reynolds," a voice orders him, shortly before he's shoved against a locker.

He bites his tongue to withhold a pained yelp, tasting blood as someone else shoves him. His breath grows ragged as he fights the want to recoil, and he grits his teeth in fury. For once, his soul is begging him not to do something, and for the first time, he listens to it.

Amber meets brown, and Tyler sighs in disappointment. He'd really been hoping it was somebody else.

"Back off, mate," he suggests kindly. "It's not a fight ye'll win."

Steve smirks, but just like last time, the boy can see the hesitation in his eyes. This is his way of getting out his frustration. He beats down others so he can feel higher than them, better than them.

"What, scared I'll kick your butt?" he scoffs, looking down at the newcomer.

"No," he disagrees, getting to his feet. "Worried that ye'll do somethin' ye'll regret."

The bully blinks, not prepared for that kind of answer. Very few people have voiced concern over him like this, and it's easily startling to find that one of his victims appears to share sympathy.

"Steve, address me by me name," he starts, a hand out as a sign of peace. "An' I want to help ye with what I can."

"I don't need help from you," he snaps, wearing an expression of disgust. "I don't need help from anybody! I rule this school!"

"Aye, well," the boy sighs. "If ye need me, ye can find me in the library."

Tyler weaves around the stunned lad and continues on his way, letting loose a small whimper as his shoulder jostles.

All he wants is for people to feel safe, he wants people to confide in him when they have no-one else to go to. He wants to be the safe place that students seek when they feel alone or are breaking apart inside. Everyone deserves sanctuary.

A silver-coloured object goes flying past his head, and he whips around to face a wide eyed Toby with his arm outstretched. Panic and regret echo in his expression.

"I'd watch where ye throw things if I were ye," he comments, momentarily catching Jim's eyes before moving on. Guilt glimmers in his own eyes as he recalls what he did to the letter.

His trip to the library is short and not sweet, and he soon dumps his stuff on a table in the far corner, taking real care as he takes out his leather-bound book. It doesn't remain in his bag for sneaky little reading breaks but for the sense of security it gives him. How odd it is that a book that's over fifty years old provides a welcoming feeling when in its presence.

Tyler chuckles to himself, running his thumb down the yellowed pages before settling into his schoolwork. The load is never ending, but at least the works comes easy now that he knows what he's doing. His memory may be terrible, but his work ethic and speed easily make up for it.

《《》》

He adjusts the reading glasses on his nose to study the biology of invertebrates, only stopped as someone knocks one of the bookshelves. With slight confusion, the boy takes off his glasses and folds them neatly, his gaze set upon the shelf.

"Who's there?" He asks, tucking the glasses in his jacket.

He receives no reply except the sound of students checking out books.

Tyler snorts and slides out of his seat, treading without caution toward the source of his curiosity. There's nothing in this school that can hurt him besides other students, and even they lack a fighting spirit to rival his.

His eyes catch a glimpse of someone darting around the bookshelf, and he snaps his head to the side to identify the person, only to find no-one. Suspicion arises within him, and he can feel the hairs along his spine rise with each passing second. The air is tense and yet he cannot recognise who is punking him. His senses are dulled.

"I don't want to play games," the boy informs, lips drawn back in irritation. "Just leave me alone and let me work."

He hates that he knows the person isn't giving up. It bothers him that he can't tell who is toying with him, and he has no natural defense besides his own words. He's not scared, just more irritated than what is probably wise.

"If ye get yerself hurt 'cause ye jumped me, I won't take the blame," Tyler warns a final time before returning back to his schoolwork.

Something hard and fast smacks him in the back of the head and he yelps in surprise, spinning on a dime to glare at the absent opponent. Nobody.

He winces slightly and raises a hand to rub his head. It'll surely bruise, if not welt.

 _"Mhallaich thu le fortan dràgon,"_ he hisses lowly as he stares strangely at the object on the floor.

A horseshoe. Of all the things to be thrown in a school.

The boy snorts once again and stoops to pick it up. Whoever it belongs to is going to have quite a time today.

As his hand grasps the iron object, he lets out a furious screech, dropping it back on the floor without hesitation. The smell of burning flesh is hard to miss and the blistering pain that burns his hand certainly gives it away.

Tears spring to his eyes, and he whimpers in pain, crouching on the floor with his hand curled to his chest. Only in story books had he imagined this. Only in tall tales from medieval times. Perhaps some of them are true after all.


	16. Chapter 16

_"The smallest changes are the most significant."_

"Tyler, you are coming with me tonight, right?"

The boy looks up from his place on the couch. Or rather, his place on the floor. With his shoulder now healed, he sits upside down with his legs kicked up on the sofa cushions and upper back resting on the floor. In his hands is a newspaper from a few days ago, the title making it apparent as to why he's reading it: _**'Dragon Spotted in Arcadia Skies!'**_

"Reluctantly," he says, folding the paper neatly before flipping back on his feet. "I 'ave no choice in the matter."

Barbara chuckles, "No, you don't."

 _"Sèid. Bha mi an dòchas weasel a-mach às,"_ Tyler mutters, dropping the newspaper on the coffee table.

"What was that?"

"Nothing!" he assures hurriedly, straightening his jacket. He's found that he rather dislikes his frequent visits to the hospital—yet another unfortunate result of his amnesia. Routine trips like the one scheduled for this evening are just simple check ups to see if he's regained any memories or lost more recent ones. Annoying for a student that still has to catch up on a year and a half's worth of education.

A pair of quickening footsteps makes him step aside to allow his foster-brother to pass by without hesitation. He holds nothing against the boy anymore, but he desperately wishes that he would share the details of what's changed him so much. However, life goes on, and he's forced to live with what it presents.

As the aspiring chef rushes past again, Tyler grabs his shoulder and stops him mid-step. Surprise is evident on his features, along with a smidgen of panic in his eyes. They haven't actually said anything to each other since their falling out two weeks ago.

"Hey, Jim," he offers a small smile and pulls out a gold paper-wrapped box from his pocket. "I know yer birthday was a few days ago, but I didn't have anythin' for ye at the time. So, this is for ye."

The boy looks between him and the small present in his hand, hesitant and unsure. Slowly, he picks it up and carefully tears open the paper to reveal a simple black box with a silver painted sparrow on top. The latch is curiously undone, and the hinges make no sound as the lid is lifted open.

An expression of awe and gratitude leaves the bronze-haired boy almost breathless as he watches his foster-brother pick out the item from its confinement. "Did you make this?"

Tyler nods, clasping his hands behind him. 

The object in question is a clumsily, yet carefully made steel bracelet that resembles a shortened bracer. Patterns line the metalwork, entwining each other as they encompass the bracelet. Raw leather softens the interior and the purposeful messy creation of it delivers a rustic-type appearance.

"I convinced one of the seniors to let me use their workshop," he rubs the back of his head with indifference. "It matches mine."

Jim looks at him in surprise as the boy raises his hand to display a remarkably similar bracelet. The only true difference between them is the pattern. While Jim's has braid-like patterns, Tyler's is engraved with runes and serpents, sparking further proof that he thoroughly enjoys foreign mythologies.

"I—I don't even—" he stops himself before smiling. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Tyler smirks, ruffling the shorter boy's black hair. "It's a gift."

"Still," Jim insists. "Thanks."

The boy shrugs, plucking his bag from the banister post and swinging it over his shoulder. They have to get going if they want to arrive to school on time.

"You boys got everything?" Barbara asks from the kitchen.

"Yup!" Jim assures as he clasps the bracelet on his wrist. "Dinner's in the—"

"Fridge," both his mother and foster-brother chime, wearing similar expressions of amusement.

"...Right," he glances between them.

"Are ye ready, Jim?" he gets a pat on the head as the elder boy walks down the hallway.

He scoffs playfully, nervousness hidden behind his eyes. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Tyler patiently holds the door open as they bid farewell to Barbara and bares a humoured grin. It's predatory, but he's aware of this, for he knows exactly what the answer is. He's going to get such a kick out of this.

 _"Embrasse tes lèvres, mon amour,"_ he dramatizes, laughing as Jim gets the gist of the foreign words.

"Oh, no. Not you too," he groans, shoulders drooping as he grabs his bike. "You were the only person that didn't bring that up!"

"Calm down," the boy chuckles, shaking his head while he raises the garage door. "I'm not gonna tease ye 'bout it."

"You're not?" Jim perks up in surprise.

"Nah, there ain't no point," he offers a kind smile. "Just be yerself, mate, and don't do anythin' dumb. I know yer worried, but it could be worse."

The aspiring chef smiles back, grateful for what little relief he's been given. It _could_ be worse. But it's not. 

Just be himself. He can do that.

《《》》

The forgetting boy watches his foster-brother without a twinge of humour. Since they arrived at school, Jim's been completely out of character, and—if honesty's being considered—a bit of an arse.

His bracelet is still on his wrist, but now it seems to be more of an ornament than a symbol of their close relationship. That's not what it was made for.

"That was cheap," Tyler growls lowly at the boy when he comes over to the back of the theatre after rehearsal. "What's up with ya?"

"Me?" he gestures to himself with the stupid cocky grin he's worn all day. "There's nothing wrong with me, Ty," the newcomer growls at the nickname, "I'm just keeping it crispy."

He bares his teeth in a grimace, glaring at the person he thought he'd made peace with. Without sparing a breath, he packs up his textbooks and papers and exits the school with Jim following close behind.

"Come on," he drawls, slinging his arm around his shoulders. "I just want to spend time with my awesome friend!"

Tyler ducks out from under the unauthorised touch, barely restraining himself from elbowing him in the gut. He thought they were more than friends earlier. He thought he was more than something to flaunt to the student masses.

 _"Poca creagan, tha thu,"_ he snarls as he clips on his helmet.

"Ty, no-one understands that gibberish," Jim scoffs, earning himself a dangerous glare that would make the strongest man alive have second thoughts.

"That _gibberish_ is me native tongue," the boy hisses, towering over his unconcerned opponent. _"Antagonize cuideigin eile, an dèanadh tu sin? Tha mi air anail gu leòr fhaighinn."_

And with that final word, he takes off on his scooter, jumping the steps to avoid having to spend another minute with his foster-brother. Words surely wound more than swords, but he's learning to allow them to cut only his patience. A patience that is already much thinner than what is wise.


	17. Chapter 17

_"Family has nothing to do with blood. You can have relations that are not your family, but friends that are every inch more loving. Family has everything to do with love and bonds."_

"One last lesson."

Tyler can hear his mentor speaking to the class before they leave. He waits just outside the room for his foster-brother, knowing that Mr. Strickler will most likely want to talk to them both. Given this evening's scheduled event.

"Who can tell me where Napoleon kept his armies?" there's a confused pause as everyone considers the question. "In his sleevies!"

The boy snorts in amusement, a grin on his lips as he hears the other students groan. It takes a certain, historical sense of humour to understand the finer delicacies of the subject.

"Young Atlas, if I could have a brief word before you leave," Strickler pauses in his words for a moment. "Alone, please. And I'd like to speak with you as well, Tyler."

He smiles lightly, letting a mumbling Tobias pass before walking into the classroom himself. Somehow Jim seems to relax a little upon seeing his familiar face. Strange.

"Mr. Strickler," he greets, finding a seat on one of the desks. 

His teacher offers a small smile to the student before turning back to Jim. He has little concern over the elder's reaction, he's already expressed his thoughts through his subtle actions.

"Uh, is everything okay?" the younger of the two asks, kicking his bag under the desk, making Tyler frown a tad.

"Actually, no," Strickler sits on the desk behind him, his tone calm and casual. "Due to recent developments, I don't want things to be strange between us."

The amber-eyed boy chuckles softly to himself, both due to his amusement and his attempt to hide his discomfort. His skin tingles and his hair rises, leaving him uncomfortably aware of his surroundings.

Every sound echoes a hundred times louder; the click of a pen cap reverberating through him like the thunder of a war drum, a scuffle of clothing like a sandstorm. His eyes swim with recognition and distant longing, reflecting the expression of his soul. The tang of something bittersweet taints his silver tongue, a taste that he subconsciously rebukes, flicking his tongue between his teeth.

Another episode. He should have guessed. But should he really? Even in the moment, it keeps him locked from the realization of his experience.

Nonexistent smells of sage and burning wood fill his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes with the intensity of the scent. The smooth leather of his jacket starts to feel more like a scruffy rag, ripped from long years of use but providing the comfort of shelter. It's powerful, and he doesn't want it to cease again. It offers such a familiarity that he misses in his current life.

"Your mother has invited me over for dinner," a more recent voice continues as though nothing is happening. "I've graciously accepted."

The young boy makes a soft sound of acknowledgement as he desperately tries to grasp on to the fading tendrils of far-off memories, wanting to cry out as they slip through his fingers. It breaks him to know that it will haunt him in fleeting moments from now-on.

"Will that make things awkward between us?" Strickler looks between the two boys, his gaze lingering on the sorrowful expression of the elder.

"Awkward?" Jim asks, voice cracking slightly. "No, no, no. It's just dinner. Right?"

"Splendid," the man concludes, tucking his fountain pen back into his pocket. "Then I shall be seeing you this evening."

The student nods cautiously, narrowing his eyes on the back of his head as he collects his belongings. He fails to sense the depressing atmosphere around his foster-sibling and only pats his shoulder as a sign for them to go.

Tyler reluctantly follows, feet dragging on the ground as he bites his lip. So close. He was so close to understanding and remembering, but he just had to go and give it the chance to elude him. 

He needs some time to himself.

《《》》

From his place in the tree, the boy smiles. Black smudges coat his fingers and face, a dusting of evidence from his most recent activity. In his hand is a shortened piece of charcoal, dulled from repeated use on the paper in front of him.

His requirement for personal time had drawn him to a small clearing in the woods behind the house with his sketchbook and flashlight in hand. And quite literally, he had drawn the clearing. Even as the sun set, he continued until every detail was captured in the image, using the flashlight to light his work.

Now, with his work complete, he finds no need for him to remain any longer. 

He pulls his phone out of his back pocket to check the time and swears loudly. Barbara had told him to be back by six, when Strickler was supposed to arrive. It's seven-fifteen.

 _"Tì iced mil siùcar!"_ he curses, hurriedly grabbing his charcoal pot and torch. She's going to skin him alive.

《《》》

**Meanwhile...**

"Bular called you 'Young Atlas' to force this very moment," Strickler states, as calm as ever. "He told me, if I can't get you to hand over the amulet, I should kill you."

Jim scoffs quietly, glancing over to the empty place at the table. "You would kill me in front of my mom?"

"Granted, your death might affect our relationship," he smirks, eyes narrowed at the boy, "but I will if I have to."

"Funny," his fingers rub over the patterns of his bracelet. "I was just thinking the same thing."

From within the kitchen, Barbara mutters something unintelligible that must have to do with the time.

"How about you tell me where the bridge is, and I'll leave your head attached to your body?"

"It seems we each have something the other wants," the Changeling draws his eyes to the chair in which an elder boy should be seated. "And share a single common interest."

Jim watches tensely as his teacher taps his fingers on the wood table, unsure as to where he's going with this. He has an unusual fascination with his foster-brother and it's unsettling. The intentions are unclear and any action might mean anything at this given moment.

"To keep your beloved _brother_ out of this," Strickler says lowly, a sly and predatory gleam in his eyes.

《《》》

 _"Sìol, sìol, sìol, sìol, sìol!"_ Tyler sprints through the underbrush toward the house, praying to whatever deity listening that he gets to live until tomorrow. _"Sèid an ùine!"_

He doesn't bother with the fence gate, just hops over with the smallest amount of difficulty. The sight of his foster-mother standing in the window only spurs him on faster, fearing for his life.

The door opens easily, and he ducks his head as the woman whips around to face him, disappointment in her eyes. His shame is instantly recognizable in the way he holds himself, apology written on his face. It does little to soften her attitude.

"Where have you been?" she asks him sternly, folding her arms across her chest. "I told you to be home at six, not half-past seven! And what have you been doing? You're filthy!"

He accepts this all with a small nod and places his stuff on the side table. The boy knows exactly what he's done and what he needs to do.

"I'll go clean up," he says quietly, shuffling into the tiny downstairs bathroom.

His appearance doesn't surprise him, only makes him sigh as he turns on the tap, scrubbing off the black dust from his hands. The small scratches from sharp branches sting as he rubs them, but he pays no mind as he wipes away a streak of charcoal from his cheek.

He grows frustrated as the mark fails to fade, rubbing his cheek red in a poor attempt to get it off. 

"Tyler," Barbara tries to stop him. "Tyler."

The boy gives her a look of defeat, and she chuckles, picking up a flannel from the side. She wets it under the running water and tilts his head to look up at her.

"Here," she suggests, gently scrubbing the mark with the flannel. "Let me."

Her foster-son makes an expression similar to a pout, but allows her to finish cleaning his face.

"I'm sorry," he finally says, sounding extremely apologetic. "I didn't see the time..."

"Tyler," she stops him, meeting his eyes, "it's alright. I'm not angry. A little upset, yes, but not angry."

He sighs in what might be relief.

"There's a plate of food waiting for you on the kitchen counter," Barbara tells him kindly. "Go eat, and we'll talk about this later. Alright?"

"Yes, ma'am," he smirks halfheartedly before wandering into the kitchen where a plate of lamb and mash potatoes awaits.

Tyler expresses very little as he approaches the table, the only telltale sign of his arrival is his soft footsteps on the hardwood floor. He has no wish to humiliate himself nor make a fuss of his tardiness, though he cannot speak for the others.

The first thing he notices in the remarkably tense atmosphere in the room. It's thick enough to make him shudder and if he wanted to, he could probably cut it with a knife. Then it's the way the two males are staring at each other. Both of them look ready to launch out of their seats and start knocking the other up. 

He's unsettled by the environment, finding it unwelcoming and violent in nature. He feels like a mouse trapped between two cats fighting for dominance. But he knows that there is no threat to him here; he can feel it in his bones.

Cautiously, he takes his seat at the dining table, watching as the silent dispute shatters instantly, banished to the far corner of each's mind. A grin breaks out across Jim's face as he pretends that he was never scowling and Strickler heeds him with a subtle smile. Something's definitely wrong.

"Where have you been, Tyler?" his foster-brother is the first to speak, and suddenly, Strickler's interested too.

"I lost me mind in the woods," he hums, taking a bite of his cooling lamb. "'Got distracted. I didn't realize the time until I came back to myself."

There's silence for a bit, and for that, Tyler's thankful. He does not wish to speak, and as much as he had previously been looking forward to this supper, he just wants it to be over. He can only handle so much insanity in one night.

The moment they've all eaten, Barbara clears the plates and he finds himself wishing that he were as oblivious to the thickening air as she. It's only by the grace that is his foster-mother's cooking ability that he gets to escape, the smell of something burning drawing him out of his seat.

If not for his quick thinking and a can of whipped cream, their dessert would have been toast. And it was only his will to avoid the situation in the dining room that got him to stay and save the pie that had been in literal flames only moments prior.

In his opinion, the evening went quite well.

Somewhat.

He had said his goodbyes to his mentor a few seconds ago and currently busies himself with cleaning the dishes. How on Earth smushed peas are so hard to clean off a plate is a total mystery to him.

"That went well, right?" Barbara asks the two boys, hands on her hips and a pleased smile on her lips.

"I think so," Tyler comments quietly, scrubbing a pot clean.

His foster-brother, however, seems to have different ideas. "I don't know," he states boldly. "He seemed kinda two-faced to me."

"That's going a little far, I think," the elder of the two frowns.

"And I thought you guys were getting along so well."

The bronze-haired boy snorts softly. She clearly couldn't see the struggle, nor the dominance issues between the two.

"Honestly? He's not the guy he says he is," Jim tries to insist, failing to convince anybody.

"Mate, he's one of the very few people that I confide in," Tyler drys his hands on a kitchen towel. "I trust him an' if ye can't at least do that, respect him. It is not yer choice to decide who yer mother is interested in. Grow up."

It's true, he does trust Mr. Strickler. And his trust is relatively hard to earn.

May Dreya have mercy on those that break it.


	18. Chapter 18

_"If you hold fear in your heart, it will destroy you. But if you are merely afraid, it will keep you alive."_

Tyler frowns, spinning the fastened object between his fingers. What a strange little thing.

He'd found the metal item stuck in the drywall shortly after Strickler's visit. It's certainly a blade of some sort, but designed like a feather, something to add to one's attire for stylistic value. He can't imagine what it is.

That's why he's dulled the edges and tied it up on a leather string. After today, it'll end up in his small box of treasures. Or strung from his bag. Either option works for him.

He rumbles quietly to himself in indifference, looking up at the clock with worry as he clutches the necklace tightly.

The boy had been on his way home after an evening at Eli's house when his foster-mother had called him. Jim was in the hospital.

He had run so fast. He didn't care that the hospital was on the other side of town, he just kept going.

It had become clear to him-after narrowly avoiding a speeding vehicle-that all self-preservational instincts had been thrown out a window. The only thing on his mind was Jim's safety.

He remembers being told to wait, that seeing his foster-brother in his condition might be a bad idea.

_"I just want to see Jim!" the boy cries, fingers curling into desperate fists._

_"Think about how you're acting now," Barbara says as calmly as she can. "You might make yourself worse."_

_"The amnesia or me current state?" he hisses, trying to dodge around the woman. "It doesn't matter, I don't care. Let me see 'i_ _m_ _."_

_His foster-mother is quick to put him in his place, holding his shoulder in a firm grip and shooting him a stern look. "You might not care, but I_ do _. You can wait out here until he's cleaned up, or I can call Walt to take you home. Either way, you can't see him."_

_He glares foully at her, an overwhelming intensity of fury burning in his gaze. But he doesn't act upon it, only releasing a soft cry of despair as he looks at the door._

Claire had gone home a few hours ago, practically dragged out by her parents. Toby had come in and out, sitting down or pacing, but even he had to abandon his post to return home. Along with them went his only company.

The click of the door makes him snap his head up, already leaping up from his seat. He knows who it is. He knows what she'll say. He knows that he only has seconds longer to wait.

Barbara shifts the clipboard in her hand, giving her foster-son a gentle look. "You can go in now."

The boy doesn't have a moment's hesitation, striding past her without a single word. All rage is behind him now and he cares little for their earlier dispute.

Tyler's hands grasp Jim's, sending a sense of comfort to both boys though neither are aware. The elder is relieved, and he plants himself on the edge of the hospital bed, never once losing his touch with his sib's.

Tyler feels like he might cry, so exhausted from worrying and pacing that he finds himself unable to move. He briefly runs his thumbs over Jim's knuckles before raising a hand to examine the stitches and bruises on his cheeks.

A shaky breath leaves his lungs, and he rests his forehead against the young boy's, reassuring himself of his living presence. He had been scared. All too often the lad has got himself stuck in trouble, but it feels less like he's been playing soldier and more like his forgetting opposite has been digging his own grave.

 _"Gum beannaicheadh an ban-dia thrì-fillte thu le deagh fhortan agus gun toir e dhut ath-bheothachadh luath,"_ he mutters softly, gently brushing his fingers along his foster-brother's cheekbones. He forces himself to remain blissfully unaware of the warmth flowing through his body.

He wants to drop like a stone and succumb to the watery depths of his cleared mind, his soul begging him to rest. But he can't, not while Jim's unconscious. Not while he is left unprotected.

His fingers delicately wrap around the boy's wrist, around the bare section of his forearm that should be hidden by his bracelet. Strange. The doctors normally place any personal belongings on the bedside.

Fascinated by the oddity, Tyler examines his arm, tracing his finger across the unblemished skin. The only answer he receives is a tingling sensation in his palms that runs down his arms.

Huh.

Just for safety's sake-or perhaps for the purpose of superstition-the amber-eyed lad draws a nonexistent rune on the boy's skin, smiling softly to himself. If his memory serves him right, it's a symbol of protection, a weak ward of sorts. Of course, that's just its believed value, it doesn't mean that he believes it's true. As of yet.

Tyler smiles weakly, brushing a strand of raven hair behind his foster-brother's ear. He cares so greatly for this boy, and would willingly take on whatever opponent to keep him safe under his wing. Without a doubt, he would sacrifice himself if necessary.

《《》》

A strained yelp leaves his lips as a great crash awakes him from his terror, bolting upright from his slouched position on the bed.

His eyes are wide with fear and panic, practically unheard whimpers slipping from his throat. The usual golden amber that fills them is glazed and clouded, fogged by the darkness surrounding him.

A shudder wracks down his spine, drawing a cursed sob to escape the boy. His hand clasps his mouth as a muffle, quietening his terror as he curls in on himself, trying to hide away where he cannot be found. It is not something that ever works, but he tries nonetheless, wanting nothing more than to disappear as tears stream down his reddening cheeks.

Eventually, he finds that he must get up, or move to shelter elsewhere than in his room. The darkness is unsettling and everything seems different without the light of the moon.

Reluctantly, Tyler brings himself to stand, wrapping his duvet around his bare shoulders as his legs tremble beneath him. His feet shuffle across the hardwood, no longer graceful in their steps but unsure and clumsy. It doesn't matter though, so long as they take him where he needs to go.

Another booming crash of thunder shakes the house, but this time, he doesn't flinch, the vision of his nightmare receding into a faded memory. That doesn't mean that he's calm, no. He's very far from calm.

With his heart racing faster than a speeding bullet, the boy is on edge, cautious of everything that he doesn't recognize after first glance. Tremors rattle his bones, making him shake harder than a cocktail mixer, causing the grip he has in his duvet to loosen.

His destination is not his foster-brother's room, but rather the basement. The place where he can sit and watch glowing embers until he nods off. The most calming place in the house.

He sniffles quietly, wiping his nose on his blanket as he makes his way down the wooden steps, unbothered by the feeling under his bare feet. The duvet drags behind him no matter how much of it he tries to pick up, gathering dust and dirt from the floor.

It's not hard to figure out, but the only truly clean spot in the basement is a small rug that had been stuck in the washing machine three times before Tyler had the will to bring it down. It's the single place that the boy finds himself completely at ease during the night.

The gentle smell of fire and petrichor soothes him almost immediately, and he releases a near silent sigh of relief as he sits. Waves of warmth encompass him and he cozily nestles into his duvet, welcoming the peace that has eluded him this night. Finally, the dark tendrils of his night terrors will be chased off by the safety in his circle of comfort.

And he couldn't care less about the foreboding sense growing in the pits of his gut.


	19. Chapter 19

_"_ _Fire is the beginning of new life."_

"Why do ye smell like fire?" Tyler gives his foster-brother a look of concern as he passes.

"I-I do?" Jim sniffs his shirt. "Huh."

The elder boy frowns, wearing a brief expression of suspicion. He can hear the falsity in his voice, the near unnoticeable waver in his tone.

While he's certainly unhappy that he doesn't feel comfortable telling the truth of what happened last month with whole hospital incident, he refuses to display his annoyance. Barbara is already doing that and it's ruined the entire atmosphere of peace that once dwelled within the walls.

He's determined to keep peace with the lad and his friends. It's not particularly hard when he spends every waking hour in the library.

But today, he's been asked to sit through a history class. A history class that isn't being taught by Mr. Strickler.

 _"Sàbhail mi bhon chràdh do-ruigsinneach seo,"_ he mutters into his hands. _"Leis a 'bhan-dia thriple, sàbhail mi."_

Hushed whispers surround him, originating from the small groups of girls. If he were to look up, he would find several pairs of lovesick eyes staring at him with admiration. According to them, he's the most attractive male at Arcadia Oaks High.

Not the kind of attention he enjoys.

"Where do you think Strickler is, Tyler?"

The boy raises his head to meet the speaker's eyes. "Why'd ye ask?"

"You were his fave," she claims, twisting around in her seat.

He hums at this, considering his words before letting them loose. "If he were anywhere, it'd be in Arcadia. But seen as he ain't, I'd say he's somewhere in the tropics. Probably down in South America."

Mary smiles at him, keeping her gaze on him for a few moments before turning back around with a dreamy sigh.

Tyler snorts quietly, pulling out several textbooks from his knapsack and placing them on his desk. His fingers brush the decorated feather blade as he closes his bag again and he finds himself running his thumb over it.

It reminds him of his mentor, though doesn't know why, and he feels quite pleased with himself for utilizing it in this way. He had been very careful when painting on the encircling pattern, ensuring that there was no shake in his hands.

He shakes his head softly, returning his gaze to the front of the classroom where Coach Lawrence is performing stretching routines.

"Since Strickler's a no-show, I'm subbin' in. We got some book-learnin' to do," he explains, stretching out his spine. "That means you too, Reynolds."

The boy gives him a neutral expression and slams his history textbook open, flipping it up to prove to the teacher that he's reading the correct material. His bored look doesn't cease.

"Okay, people, who can tell me what happened in the year 1989?" Coach Lawrence's eyes widen slightly in panic when he receives no response. "No, seriously. I don't remember. It was a crazy year."

A bang echoes through the classroom as Tyler's head drops on the desk. "Dreya 'ave mercy."

《《》》

"Hullo, Claire," he smiles lightly at the young girl as she walks by with Jim and Toby.

"Oh, hi, Tyler!" she chirps cheerfully, giving a small wave.

He chuckles quietly at her joyous nature, joining the small group at the bike racks to pick up his scooter. The boys' chatter quietens as they watch him unlock his scooter from the rack, and he finds his mood dampened by their secrecy, wanting to know exactly what it is that they're talking about.

 _"Beannaichte le fortan, ge bith ciamar a bhios a 'ghaoth a' sèideadh,"_ he mumbles to them, turning his head away to face the greying skies. 

The conversation of students and cheerful humming of his foster-brother's lady friend fade into background noise as he scowls at one of the trees outside the campus. It's nearly doubled over in the howling wind, leaves ripping from its branches.

"Travel safe," he tells his housemate, tossing him a small rabbit foot key-chain. "I'll be home 'round six, call me if ye'll be later," he jabs a finger at Jim's chest. "Actually call me this time."

When the younger boy gives a short nod, he spins around and braves the brewing storm, jumping the school steps as usual. He pays no attention to the powerful gusts of air, only focusing on staying upright and making it to his stretch of woodland without getting hit by a car. There's a small sheltered 'cove' there that he can hide in for a bit.

The sound of something snapping snatches his attention, making his head whip around to see a tree branch flying towards him. By some miracle, he ducks just in time to avoid being decapitated, feeling the twigs brush his helmet.

 _"Ifrinn naomh,"_ he breathes, watching the branch tumble away.

Arcadia never gets this kind of weather, nothing even remotely close. It's unnatural and frightening. It's like the sky is boiling, taunted by an unknown opponent.

A deep rumble shakes the boys core, bringing him to lean on an old oak for security and support. The heavens themselves are in turmoil now, and the clouds can be seen rolling in from the south, growling in warning. If it doesn't start raining now, it'll be the apocalypse in a few minutes.

Tyler chuckles to himself at the thought, quickly ducking down to avoid another airborne branch. This may be bad weather, but he's not willing to go quite that far. And yet he still feels that dark sense growing in his gut.

He shakes his head and keeps going, crawling down the small decline in the soil with his hands clutching the exposed roots for support. The taste of biting wind is starting to get old, he finds, spitting out yet another leaf. And yet, he keeps going, wanting to reach his place of tranquility.

At long last, the wind stops hounding him, blocked by the gnarled trunks of ancient trees. Their creaking branches sway in near silent greeting, and he wonders if it was magic that brought him here the first time around. The idea has grown on him, and given that no-one else has ever found this place, it seems almost considerable.

The taunting croaks of several crows puts him on edge, as they circle in the unseen branches above him, travelling ever closer. The cruel birds have always made him uneasy, as though something deep within his soul despises them for an unrecognizable reason.

A small cry of terror urges his feet to move before he even acknowledges it, drawing him to a gathering of crows pecking at something on the ground. One of the beasts straightens, turning its head to stare at him with a beady eye. Blood coats its parted beak, crimson glinting in the cold light from above.

 _"Thalla!"_ he shouts, waving his arms about as he approaches. "Be gone!"

They caw at him in protest, growls bubbling in their throats as the boy shoos them away. It is best not to challenge one who can so easily bite back.

With a final cry, Tyler throws a stick at the gathering, spooking them into flying into the trees surrounding. He cringes as they continue to gibe, croaking most terribly in promises of darkness.

A weak whimper draws his attention back to the ground and he drops to his knees immediately, hands outstretched. A young raven, splendorous feathers coated with thick red and plucked cruelly. One of their wings is quite clearly broken, and every breath is full of tremors. Not good. Not good at all.

"Shh, shh," the young boy hushes, keeping calm as he delicately grasps the injured fledgling, uncaring of the blood now covering his hands. "It'll be alright, little one."

He continues his small promises of safety, hoping to override the cawing curses of the crows. A murder of crows. Most horribly fitting.

And to think he once believed bad omens did not exist.


	20. Chapter 20

_"Thought and Memory serve their Master well."_

"Ye do know 'ow much of a pain in the arse it is to clean grass stains out of clothes, don't ye?" the boy asks in irritation, holding up Jim's filthy blue sweater. "An' ye had to go an' do it during me turn."

His foster-brother gives him a guilty expression, rubbing his neck awkwardly. He hadn't exactly meant to get himself covered in mud.

"An' what's with the whole 'Mole Mania' thing?" he flicks off a piece of dirt from his own shirt. "I get tha' ye needed a theme, but really?"

"Sorry?" Jim offers, trying to back away from the scolding.

"Oi!" Tyler yanks the boy back, eyeing him sternly. "Shoes off."

He looks down at his feet in confusion, only to sigh in defeat. His lovely sneakers are coated in several layers of muck. There goes whatever sense of cleanliness he had.

"Go 'ave a shower an' we can talk 'bout this later," the bronze-haired instructs after picking up the ruined shoes.

"Only if you've cleaned up all the feathers," Jim retorts, earning himself a snort of amusement.

"Aye, was done yesterday," he chucks the dirty items of clothing in the washing machine. "Don't use all the hot water!"

"You don't need it!"

"Bugger off, would ya!" he snaps playfully, baring his teeth in a half-smile.

His foster-brother laughs, ducking down to avoid a pair of his own underwear being thrown at him. He flashes a quick smirk of achievement before slipping out the door.

Tyler sighs to himself, finishing the task at hand as he thinks. Just this morning, he saw something out on the soccer field that made him feel ill. A grotesque figure with glowing gold eyes and roots growing across its back that manipulated the shadows surrounding. 

He had actually been sick.

Unsure whether or not it was the result of his mythological imagination or something he'd really seen with his two eyes, he chose the former, and continued on with his day. But the bubbling panic in his system was alarming, and with it still remaining, he's practically trembling with every movement. Something is most certainly not right.

However, he _had_ been pleasantly surprised to discover that Strickler was back in town, taking up the position of acting-principle. 

_"I'm very glad to be back and excited to get started," the boy grins at his mentor, locking eyes with him for a brief moment. "But let it be known, with me in charge, things are going to change."_

_That last bit of his small speech makes the dazzling smile falter, because no matter who Strickler claims to be, the darkness was not glossed over. That was a very clear, and very disturbing threat to someone._

_But, he's happy to see the man again, having missed the company of the person who taught him how to stand tall throughout his challenges._

_After the assembly disperses, he strolls down the bleachers, ignoring the quizzical stares of students nearby. The box in his hands shifts slightly, and he quietly hushes the inhabitant inside, adjusting his grip to be more suitable._

_"Mr. Strickler," he greets the newly appointed principle warmly. "It's been a while."_

_"Ah, Tyler," he returns, inclining his head in greeting, only to give an astonished look to what resides within his hands. "And who might your companion be?"_

_The young boy smiles softly, gently petting the raven fledgling's head with a finger. Several people today have asked about his 'pet'--an incorrect and cruel term. When the fledgling is healed and old enough to fend for themselves, he will release them back in to the world whence they came._

_"Muninn," he almost croons, glancing back up at the teacher with eyes of wonder and empathy. "I thought it would be fitting."_

_"One of Odin's ravens," Strickler comments with amusement. He's done his own research during his disappearance. "Old Norse for 'memory' if I recall."_

_"Indeed," Tyler lets loose an easy smirk. "Found 'im in the woods the other day. Barbara 'ad a fit."_

_The man chuckles at the thought. "I don't doubt."_

_"He's stayin' with me until he heals. "Tyler displays no signs of greed, knowing deep down that all he wants is for the bird to be freed from his cage._

_"Well, I'm sure he's in good hands," his mentor assures, guiding the boy out of the gymnasium. "After all, yours are the most capable of all."_

Something about the way Strickler had said that disturbs him. Like he knows something that he's unaware of, or forgotten. Either way, it rubs him wrong.

Tyler sighs to himself, hitting the washing machine to make sure it starts before getting to his feet. It's time to feed Muninn at any rate, and he doesn't want to make the youngster wait any longer than he already has.

The sight that greets him at the top of the stairs makes him frown. Jim's got a packed bag slung over his shoulder, filled with very little besides essentials. Boots that he's never worn before are laced and tied tightly and a loose fitting jacket rests on his shoulders. He looks like he's going camping.

"Do ye never tell anyone anythin'?" the amber-eyed boy asks with an accusatory tone in his voice, folding his arms across his chest. "Or is it just me?"

His foster-brother flinches at his words, looking more than a bit guilty and plenty more hurt. But he settles for shifting on his feet rather than meeting the gaze of his equal.

"Jim, please," Tyler almost begs, watching the boy continue on his way to the front door. "I worry, ye know? I just wanna know if yer gonna be all right."

"I'll be fine," he brushes off the concern being given to him. "It's just a camping trip with Toby and Claire."

"That's me point," he sighs, leaning against the wall. "Ye don't tell me these thin's beforehand. Ye just mention it at the last minute."

Jim gives a sigh of his own, hand resting on the doorknob. "I'm sorry, Tyler. I am. It's just..." he trails off, unsure as to how he is to finish the sentence.

"I know," his shoulders slump in defeat, and the inflicted damage is almost visible through his eyes. "Just keep yerself safe for me, all right?"

The younger boy gives a weak and playful half-smile, opening the door as he looks back. "I can't quite promise that."

"Then come back in one piece."

"I will."

And with that, the boy's gone, leaving only the lingering presence of a forgotten child. With him, goes one of the last lights of his life, leaving him to wonder whether or not the world is revolving without him. Perhaps he is left in the dust of changing times. Perhaps he will be forgotten once again.


	21. Chapter 21

_"Books are the universe's keys to the locks that hide forbidden secrets."_

"If yer lookin' for the mythological section, it's over 'ere," Tyler calls to the wandering stranger from his usual spot, nose buried in his textbook. "Geographical locations are on the other side of the shelf."

The strange man sighs in slight relief, plodding over with eager interest to roam the shelves.

"Thank you, dear boy," he says, and the student raises a brow. That's rather formal language for this era.

"Me name's Tyler Reynolds, sir," he introduces offhandedly. He does have a pre-calculus test to study for.

"Ah!" the man exclaims. "My name is Mr. Blinky."

He stares up at him for a few moments, a cold and calculating glint in his eyes. His posture shifts to a more dominating position and the air around him practically vibrates with superiority. It's almost as though he's become a predator that's cornering its prey.

"If ye don't mind me askin', sir, what're ye doin' 'ere?" Tyler folds the corner of his page to mark his place. "Visitors need a pass an' ye don't look like yer from 'round town."

The man shifts under the intense gaze of the youth, mumbling quiet nonsense while wringing his hands. Surely, he should be able to stand his ground in front of this mere teenager. But something about him just speaks power.

"Here."

He blinks in confusion as he finds a book being handed to him. Was he not being subtly threatened a few moments ago?

"If yer looking for somethin', ye gotta start somewhere," the boy offers what might be a small smile. "If yer just need information, I see no reason in depriving ye of it."

"Why," he starts, taking the book into his own hands, "thank you, Tyler."

The amber-eyed boy snorts with apparent amusement, returning his attention to the textbook in his hands. But not without flashing a sharp half-smile at the stranger.

"The pleasure's all mine."

《《》》

"Which do ye reckon is more accurate," Tyler lifts his eyes over the pages of his textbook to look at the man surrounded by books, "Norse mythology or Celtic mythology?"

Mr. Blinky appears quite taken aback, as his book falls from his hands. "Whatever do you mean?"

He shrugs halfheartedly, his gaze drifting downwards to the pages. "Someone's gotta be right. 'Sides, where'd it all come from?"

His companion pauses for a moment, deep in thought. "It is quite possible that neither are right, Tyler. Myths and legends come from people interpreting things differently. Say, a strange looking wave may have brought about the idea that dragons exist."

The boy frowns slightly as he chuckles, a bit disappointed by his answer. He'd been hoping for something much grander. That being said, he knew it was bound to happen at some point.

"Thank ye, for shootin' down me hopes an' dreams," he snorts with sarcasm, ruffling his book pages before returning to them. "I do still believe in some of 'em, though."

"And why would that be?"

Tyler sighs, placing his textbook on the table. "Sometimes ye can just feel it. Like static or mist in the air but ye just can't quite see it. I don't know 'ow else to describe it. I just feel it in me gut."

Mr. Blinky stares at him for a second or two, almost studying him. But not subtle at all, despite how hard he tries.

"It's somethin' in the way the wind blows on a dull day, an' 'ow the woods come alive at night," the young boy exhales, leaning against the back of his chair as he relaxes, mind travelling further than he has in his whole life. "Or perhaps it's to do with the wildflowers that grow in a graveyard, the sound of music across the water. It just sits there as if waitin' for us to remember."

In his mind's eye, it's clear. The sunset alights the sky with brilliant shades of pink and orange, painting with hues that he can only dream of. A broad grin is across his lips, and he knows that the lads next to him share a similar expression, caught up in the beauty of the evening. He can feel stone beneath him and his legs hang off the wall. Familiar senses of sparks warms his core, running through every inch of his body as he admires the gorgeous view.

"Are you quite all right?"

He blinks, the vision disappearing in front of him. He wants to cry out in loss, missing the piece of his past life. 

The cold tear trail down his cheek goes unnoticed.

"Yeah," he says at last, waving off the elder man's concern. "Yeah, I'm good."

After that, he ignores the stranger, placing headphones over his ears to drown out his misery. The music helps a little, but the emotion cannot be hidden. He wants to hit himself. He wants to disappear back into his dreams.

Better falsity than reality, right?

Only sometimes.


	22. Chapter 22

_"Fear manifests into nightmares, and nightmares turn into reality. It is the truth of terror."_

"Do you have a date?"

Tyler chokes on a fry, coughing in to the nearest trash can. When it comes back up, he spits it out, hands tightly gripping the rim as he wheezes over it.

 _"Dè an ifrinn, mata,"_ he shoves Toby with a weak growl, tearing up slightly as a result of his fit. "Don't do that."

"Well, do you?" the chubbier boy questions with fascinated curiosity.

"No," he spits back, quite put out. "Why on earth would I?"

Toby shrugs sarcastically, wincing as it seems to bring him pain. "I don't know, maybe it has to do with you being the guy every girl is crushing on."

The forgetting boy grimaces, looking up to find the hallway filled with more females than before. It appears that he's become a desired target for most of the girls in the grade, at least judging by the amount of lovesick eyes he gets.

He rolls his eyes and returns to munching on his cold french fries. There's no interest for him in picking favourites. Or anyone at all.

"Why?"

His friend gives him an expression of utmost shock and horror. "Dude! You're tall, muscular, and have amazing hair. Your jawline's sharp enough to cut somebody!"

Tyler snorts, shaking his head in amusement.

"You are the definition of tall, dark, and handsome!" Toby insists animatedly, glancing about every now and then with a bit of hope in his eyes. "Us boys dream of being like you."

"Don't," the boy suggests, rolling his shoulders lazily. "It's not fun bein' me. 'Sides, who else would compete for the lassies?"

"Lassies?" he asks, confused by the term.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "Means girls."

"Oh."

"Don't ye have to meet Jim this mornin'?" A fry is tossed into the air, only to be caught in the open jaw of the thrower. 

He watches with mild amusement as the younger boy panics, calling a loud goodbye as he runs down the corridor.

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes him turn around, a curious expression on his features. He's greeted by the nervous face of Shannon Longhannon, one of the girls in Jim's grade, who then takes a massive step backwards.

Tyler offers a small smile, unfortunately aware of how she blushes. "Ye all right there, Shannon? Anythin' I can do to 'elp ye?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but seems to find that her words are stuck. Again, she tries to say something, only to shut her lips after a few moments.

The boy sighs quietly, chucking his empty styrofoam container in the bin beside him. "Is this 'bout the Spring Fling?"

Tentatively, she nods her head, looking ready to bolt in the opposite direction at any given second. She seems to already know his answer, given how loose her shoulders are and avoids eye contact. Wise enough to prepare herself for the inevitable worst.

"I'm sorry, Shannon," he places a hand on her arm, bending to meet her eyes. "But I cannot accept. It's not that I'm already goin' with somebody, but I don't exactly..."

She catches his drift, nodding in obvious disappointment. "Sorry for bothering you."

"No, no," he corrects, pulling her back slightly. "Ye didn't bother me. Don't think that. Yer not a bother, Shannon, I swear. I just don't really go after, uh, lassies like yerself."

"Oh," she realises, her voice small. "You're..."

"Yeah," he agrees before thinking quietly for a moment. "If ye 'ave no one else, I can go with ye. It won't be a date, but a thin' between friends?"

Shannon smiles softly. "You don't have to."

"As ye friend, indeed I do," he insists cheekily. "'Sides, I want to."

They share a look, and he hands her a small slip of paper, smirking to himself as she skips off. The jealous glares are not what he wanted for her, but at least the females of Arcadia Oaks High are off his back.

The bell goes off and he frowns, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in warning. Something's not right, and it's messing with the atmosphere.

Tyler yelps in surprise as something cold burrows into his ear, whining in disgust and horror. It's not right, nothing should do that. Nothing should so easily evade him.

Then he blinks, and everything's dark. He can no longer see the flickering florescent lights in the ceiling, nor the hint of sunlight through the small windows. He can hardly see his own feet.

 _"Traitor,"_ a voice hisses in his ears, making him spin around to find nobody there.

 _"Scum of the earth,"_ another harasses, and a force knocks his feet out from under him. _"Foolish beast."_

"What?" he asks, both scared and confused. "Why do ye call me that?"

 _"It plays innocent,"_ one chuckles. _"Pathetic."_

"What do ye want from me?!" the boy cries out, answered only by more empty voices.

_"You are a liar!"_

He turns in circles, praying to find an end to the darkness. The discovery of nothing has his hands trembling and knees quaking.

_"You killed him!"_

_"My father's dead because of you!"_

_"I watched them burn!"_

_"And what did you do?"_

The boy cries out to the hidden people, desperate and alone. "Who are ye? What do ye want?!"

 _"You betrayed us,"_ a low voice speaks, void of emotion and thick with cruelty. _"All of us."_

"But who are ye?" he screeches into the emptiness, struggling to keep himself from having another episode. "Tell me who ye are!"

 _"We were your friends."_ He spins on his heel in an instant, coming face-to-face with the hollow gaze of a young man with ravens' feather hair. _"We thought we knew you."_

 _"And then you turned against us."_ A blond man in chain mail corners the boy against an unseen wall, a sword tight in his hand. _"You slaughtered us."_

"What?!" the child cries in horror, eyes wide and mouth agape. "I-I couldn't! I would never!"

 _"They died because of you,"_ he raises his weapon above his head, the steel reflecting in the light of the boy's eyes. _"And you will pay the price for your actions."_

He shrieks, diving out of the corner at the last second in terror. His feet trip over themselves as he stumbles upright, slowing his reaction to the sudden appearance of an elderly man in front of him.

A shout of fear escapes him again, and he watches with mute horror as the man's kind face crumbles to ash, accusation and betrayal reflecting in his glassy eyes. His ragged robes alight with wicked flames, and his screams echo within the boy's ears.

"No!" he cries with a voice unlike his own, thick and heavy in grief. "No!"

_"This is what you've done."_

Tears brim his eyes as he finds a valley of flames before him, charred ruins and twisted bodies burning within the red. They were a people. Children and women and young men. All of them disintegrating into dust in the wind.

"I didn't do this," he whispers, biting back a harsh sob. "I couldn't."

 _"One cannot avoid their own past,"_ a voice like gravel speaks, hatred in every word. _"And you cannot escape your destiny."_

Visions flash before him, colours of gold, silver, and bronze. A kind laugh, a cruel chuckle. The glint of the sun in the eyes of another, a broad smile. A thank you, a goodbye. The sound of steel on stone, the mutterings of something foreign. One by one, they return. Link by link, the chains of iron break apart, scattering old memories into his mind.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no," he shakes his head, backing away from the scene. "I did not do this."

 _"I trusted you!"_ a younger voice bellows with wet anger. 

_"You turned your back on us."_

_"What have you done?"_

_"It's your fault!"_

_"Get out!"_

"I didn't do this!" the boy sobs, biting his knuckle as he continues to shake his head.

_"Join me."_

_"Take her hand."_

_"I'm the only one who accepts you."_

The voices grow louder, drawing him to press his hands over his ears. They're deafening and he can no longer hear his own denying thoughts, the bad now outweighs the good. 

The boy cries aloud, calling out in guilt and terror. He falls to his knees, agonized screams tearing themselves from his lungs as he cries. He didn't do this. He can't have. They lie.

An unnatural chill crawls up his spine, and he becomes vaguely aware of another presence behind him. He doesn't care, even when a cold blade presses against his neck.

"I've waited centuries for this," a low voice chuckles. "And here you are, vulnerable and alone. I might finally spill your blood."

He swallows thickly, grasping on to his bracelet for comfort. To his unrecognized surprise, it's warm to the touch.

"But, alas," the person continues, and the blade disappears, "that blasted Stricklander would protest. Until our paths cross again, forgotten one."

The presence vanishes and he screams, curling into himself. His mind fights an internal battle, clashing against words that are not his own while struggling to comprehend all that is new. It's overwhelming, it's frightening. And he is alone.

"I didn't do this," he mumbles, sobbing weakly. "I never did..."

If only he could convince himself. When one fears false accusation, it is impossible to truly believe the truth. Doubt forever clouds the minds of the brave.


	23. Chapter 23

_"Even after the dam breaks, water continues to run, albeit much slower."_

The nightmares got worse.

Great beasts and dark thunderclouds brew in his mind every night. Sometimes they chase him, sometimes they rip him to pieces. Every other night, it's him who's chasing them, ripping them apart with his bare hands once they inevitably end up within his grasp.

Each night he awakes, drenched in his own sweat and gasping for breath that should never have been his. Bandages wrap loosely around his palms, hiding deep crescent-shaped wounds, a result of clenching his fists so tightly. Sometimes he rips through the fabric, fouling his hands and bed-sheets with crimson stains.

While his memories have been returned, his mind has not.

He knows that he is someone far greater than who he outwardly displays, and he wants to learn. His voice sounds older, more refined, and even his thoughts come differently, flowing smoothly and without hesitation. Not a single tremor quakes his hands when he draws and he doesn't turn his head at the sight of gore.

Barbara insists that he stay at home for a few days, giving him time to recover and reflect. He had given them all quite the scare when he was found.

Curled in the far corner of the history classroom with bloodshot eyes and a haunted expression. His shoulders had been shaking so much that he couldn't even keep his head upright. And when one of the investigating firemen tried to pull him up, he got so spooked that he hit them and broke their nose before running into the locker room. It took over an hour to ease him out.

Sometimes, different words and experiences can trigger an episode or memory, and not all of them have been pretty. For example, when Steve shoved him into a locker, a very vivid vision of a man in armour flashed before his eyes and he crumpled to the floor immediately, believing that he had just watched a mace bury itself in his stomach. And upon seeing Jim and Toby pretend to sword fight with chopsticks, blood and gore filled his sight, bodies falling limp as he ran them through with his own blade.

A demanding croak eases him from his thoughts and he smiles softly at the raven fledgling, finding amusement in the pouting expression delivered his way. Muninn has grown quite rapidly in the few days they've been together, having nearly lost all of his chick fluff and gained roughly a hundred grams. That being said, he definitely acts like a toddler sometimes.

"I take it yer hungry, hmm?" he chuckles quietly, climbing out of bed to grab his gloves. "Jus' give me a minute, young one."

Forever impatient, and forgetting of his injuries, the young raven hops on the boy's arm as he passes. He wobbles his way up to his caretaker's shoulder, using his beak to nip his gold earring. 

"Calm down, would ye?" Tyler plucks the bird off his shoulder and gives him a mildly scolding look.

Muninn croaks mockingly.

"Honestly." He shakes his head, deciding to just forgo the gloves and directly hand-feed mealworms instead. 

To his relief, the fledgling gobbles down a large handful of the insects. But he decides to regurgitate a wet mush of larvae onto the boy's desk. He looks at him expectantly.

Tyler blinks, eyes darting between the two. Then he understands and resists a grimace. "No. I'm not eatin' that. I cannot eat that."

Muninn croons, bobbing his head in outrage.

 _"Tha thu nad cheann beag càl, tha fios agad?"_ He points his finger at the raven, of which earns him a peck. "I'm not eatin' yer vomit, Muninn."

The young raven huffs, fluffing his feathers indignantly. He turns his beak up and away from the caretaker, refusing to look at him.

"Ye big baby," he chuckles, softly petting his head feathers. 

His reply is protesting squawk.

Tyler hums to himself, putting away the mealworms in their rightful drawer and cleaning up the insect mush with a piece of paper towel. He grabs his empty water glass from his bedside and chucks the paper in the bin, intending on coming back up to retrieve it later.

"Don't ruin anythin'," he commands the raven, whom ignores him. After giving him a suspicious glare, he turns around and walks out of his room, a blanket around his shoulders.

He refuses to think of the past few days, blatantly ignoring the thoughts that might give him the answers to all of his questions. The last time he had allowed that, he had ended up being haunted by screaming people and a thunderous curse. No, he doesn't want to see that again.

Something in the kitchen clatters and Tyler frowns. Didn't Barbara have to head out early? And Jim's at school...

The glass in his hand shatters on the hardwood floor, scattering shards of glass around his bare feet. The thing in the fridge stiffens.

 _"Dè fo Shealbh,"_ he says, eyeing the blue lump with caution. _"Dè tha an fìor irinn."_

The creature, or whatever it is, slowly retracts its head from the interior of the fridge. Its horns are huge, and it takes great care to ensure that it does not knock anything over. Yellow eyes that should belong to a monster are wide with horror, its gaze slowly travelling over to the boy.

Yellow entraps amber, and Tyler finds himself floored. Those eyes... He now knows those eyes.

"Draal?!" he gapes, frantically examining the male for some sort of trick. "By the Triple Goddess..."

The Troll appears to be equally as surprised, looking more like a statue than a living being. His fingers curl into weak fists while he tries to grasp who he's seeing.

 _"Dè an ifrinn a rinn thu?!"_ The boy takes a few steps forward, pure fury in his eyes as he sees the male's metal arm. _"Cò a rinn seo dhut?"_

The warrior swallows slowly, bending down to catch the familiar scent of the boy who disappeared. A huff of warm air ruffles his hair and the Troll grunts in quiet approval, unsure of how to react.

"Esmerion?" 

Visions flash at full force through the boy's eyes at the name, filling his mind with memories that should be forgotten. His past self slams into his mind from his soul, drawing a pained cry from his lips as the boy in his heart fights against the change. 

He feels so old, so strong. And yet he's never been so vulnerable. The return of himself is conflicting with the person that he's been for these past seven months and it's tearing him apart inside.

He can't see anything other than the blinding visions and he's scared. For the second time in a week, he's scared of himself. He's terrified of what he's done and what he can do. So many lives have been in his hands...

"Esmerion," the gruff, yet easily familiar voice of the young Troll fills his ears and warm arms scoop him off the floor. "You are alive."

The boy whines softly, butting his head against what he hopes is the Troll's chest. _"Gu dearbh."_

"We," he frowns but carefully makes his way through the house, stepping around the patches of sunlight, "thought you had died."

A quiet chuckle of great power leaves the boy, resonating with both amusement and wisdom. "You should know better than that, my dear _clach-theine._ "

"I never did," the Troll smiles gently at the one in his arms. Time has truly changed the both of them. "I never did, _Gweledydd_."


	24. Chapter 24

_"Memories serve better than stray thought."_

Draal hadn't told anyone about his encounter with the boy.

To be honest, it seemed like a bad idea and he had passed out before they could discuss the matter. It didn't feel right to betray his trust like that.

Apparently the boy is calling himself Tyler, at least according to the Trollhunter. How odd it feels to wrap his tongue around the word after knowing his true title for centuries. Nevertheless, he keeps it to himself, trusting the _human_ to refrain from mentioning it.

But every night, usually in the early hours of the morning when he returns to the Trollhunter's house, Esmerion wanders into the basement with a blanket around his shoulders and sits in the presence of the Troll. No words pass between them, at least not ones of typical conversation.

"Go on, another."

Draal snorts, shaking his head with irritation. "No! You will get it."

The boyish features of the lad scrunch up as he laughs, baring his teeth in a display of mirth. His ancient eyes glint with mischief, sparkling just as they did all those years ago.

"Jus' one more, _clach-theine_ ," he insists, pulling his blanket up to cover his bare arms. "I 'ave to leave so soon."

The warrior looks down at him in disappointment. He had been hoping to spend a few more days with him. But all good things must come to an end, he supposes.

"I will still see ye in the mornin'." He smiles warmly, though it seems more forced than usual. "Jus' not throughout the day."

Silence settles between them, a warm but awkward atmosphere hovering around their heads. It's full of interrupted peace and broken bonds, something that neither wished to happen but time inflicted anyways.

"It brings back the lost as though never gone, shines laughter and tears with light long since shone; a moment to make, a lifetime to shed; valued then but lost when one is met with final end."

"Hmm?" the boy hums, looking up at the Troll from his position between his arms.

"Your riddle." Is the response he receives, though soft in tone.

He makes a gentle motion of understanding, bringing his gaze down to the warrior's metal arm. It angers him to know that Bular had taken his arm in their battle, but he knows that it could have been significantly worse. At least the male escaped with his life intact.

A gentle nudge makes him chuckle and he swats away the eager Troll with a hand, earning himself a huff of warm air. "Patience, _clach-theine_. I 'aven't started yet."

"Good." Another huff of air and an affectionate nuzzle.

The boy smiles, tracing a runic symbol on his stony skin. This is how he thinks, distracting his hands as his mind thinks.

Then he stops, his smile faltering slightly as he stares at the furnace coals. He knows the answer. But why must it be the answer to this riddle?

"A memory," he says softly, flinching a little at the word. "It's a memory."

He receives a faint hum of approval and a shifting of the Troll behind him. "It hurts."

"I know."

"I dislike that you remember so little while I am allowed to keep my memories."

"I know."

"It's painful to know-"

"I'm sorry."

《《》》

Stricklander was unsettled. He _is_ unsettled.

All day, his student, Tyler Reynolds, has refused to even look his way. And now, during his last teaching period, the boy is glaring at him. It's a predatory gaze burning with hatred and pride. It's the look a cat gives a mouse when it finally corners the prey.

He has an awful feeling that he's the mouse.

Even so, he does his best to keep his wits about him. Especially knowing of who the boy truly is.

It doesn't come as a surprise when the boy stays behind after class, it's a routine he's quite easily come accustomed to. Typically a casual meeting and discussion ensues while he organizes lesson plans.

Only, that doesn't seem to be the case this time around.

He turns around and starts. The boy is no longer sitting, but instead standing only a foot or two away. His fists are curled and tense, turning the knuckles a stark white. He looks feral, amber eyes blazing furiously like molten metal.

The man falters, trying to form the words, "T-Tyler. Are you quite all right?"

A growl leaves the youth's lips and that's the only warning he receives. His head slams against the brick as he's thrown into the wall. Hands tightly grasp his collar, near ripping it as they pull him off the floor.

"I don't know ye, or yer game, but I know yer kind," he snarls, and Strickler swears his eyes glow. "Changelin'."

The impure stays silent, struggling to understand what has happened. How he has come to recall his lost memories.

"H-how?" It's all he asks, anything more might sever the thin patience of the boy.

He chuckles darkly. "Through the centuries, yer scent remains the same."

"So you know, then," Strickler grins cruelly, playing off his fear.

"I've always known," he hisses, spit foaming at his lips. "It was just a matter of returning to meself."

"And Jim?" Interesting, the boy's gaze flickers.

"Enough of yer yabberin'!" he roars, throwing the Changeling back against the stone wall. "I know ill-intent when I see it."

"Do you?" the man sneers, though he recoils as the youth hits the stone beside his head with enough force to crack it.

"I 'ave seen enough blood spilt to last a 'undred lifetimes, Changelin'. I will not stand for any more!" his voice is animalistic, low and challenging.

"I thought your kind were forbidden from interfering." A cruel mention, he knows, but a clever play.

"When we were many, yes," the boy snaps, his pearly white teeth seeming sharper than before. "Currently, I don't concern meself with such trivial matters."

"A shame, really." He stiffens at his mentor's words, his features twisting with a sort of understanding. "For if you did, you would have noticed my own little interference."

He stares at him in horror, eyes wide as the fury dissolves. There's no mistaking his shock. This was not meant to happen.

"Ye sniveling snake!" the youth cries, dropping the teacher instantly as he steps back. "What the ' _ell_ gave ye the idea that would result in yer advantage?!"

He runs his hands through his hair as stares at the Changeling. The bastard's gone and tied his fate to Barbara's. Like that's going to end any better than rebuilding Killahead.

"That was a terrible bloody idea if I've ever seen one," he hisses, his heated glare returning.

Strickler holds his cocky demeanour, but the small flash of regret in his eyes gives him away. He's speaking to one of the great, someone familiar with many spells and enchantments. If this lad thinks it was a mistake, it quite likely was.

"Muninn," he commands, and the young raven hops onto his outstretched arm. "I have a proposition."

The Changeling grins, his ambition letting slip his glowing eyes. "Do go on."

He growls lowly to himself and shares an apprehensive look with the fledgling on his forearm. "I won't touch ye. _But_ if ye _dare_ to _think_ 'bout hurtin' Jim or Tobias or Claire..." he trails off, watching his mentor's reaction with a silent threat. "I _will_ find a way to gut ye. Barbara will get off scott free while _Angor Rot_ can toy with yer soul."

Something in his voice promises that he isn't bluffing. And something in his eyes gives away how merciless he will be.


	25. Chapter 25

_"We're all afraid of something. Why do you think the brave keep fighting?"_

Esmerion, with all things considered, should probably have been more concerned when he found Strickler tied up in the kitchen. Then again, he himself was supposed to be dead, and yet his lungs still drew breath.

After studying the man for a few moments, he had decided to feed his own complaining stomach.

"Good mornin', sleepin' beauty," the youth greets the rousing male, sitting on top the kitchen counter with his legs crossed beneath him. He chews on a piece of buttered toast.

The Changeling mutters incoherently, struggling to fight the exhaustion in his system. He's not quite sure what's going on.

"What is yer name?" he asks, head tilted in curiosity. "While ye know mine, ye never did tell me yers."

"Hmm?"

He sighs, glancing to the slumbering Trollhunter on the sofa. He only has a few minutes to speak with the male.

"Yer name. What is it?" This time it's more of a demand.

"Stricklander," his mentor says, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. "My name is Stricklander, young Esmerion."

He grits his teeth as he releases a sharp cry of harsh laughter, quiet enough to refrain from waking his foster-brother. Amusement gleams in his ancient eyes, clashing with despair in a furious battle.

"Ye call me young, when it is really ye who is young," he chuckles, growling lowly. "I am older than yer entire race."

The Changeling stays silent, though whether he's thinking over the youth's words or contemplating his safety is unclear.

"So," Esmerion starts, crunching on his toast crust, "releasing Angor Rot is really comin' back 'round to bite ye, isn't it?"

"How do you—?" Stricklander looks taken aback, confused by his conclusion.

"Crows," he spits, hissing in hatred. "T'was also the day the sky boiled."

The man appears unsettled, and watches him with a cautious eye. Not that he'd be able to do anything if Esmerion decided to take an action.

"Ye made a grave mistake in lettin' the beast go." His words are dark, hollow with scolding. "Yer a fool, Stricklander."

"I have come to realise that," the man frowns at him.

Esmerion snorts, licking the crumbs off his fingers. He stiffens suddenly, eyes wide and ears almost perked. His head tilts slightly for a moment before he promptly hops off the counter and opens the basement door.

"Ye'll 'ave me aid when ye need it," he states quietly, drumming his fingers on the door. Then, without a sound, he disappears into the dark, just in time to avoid Jim as he walks past.

《《》》

With night fallen, the house is wrongly silent. Every floorboard can be heard throughout the house when stepped upon, and even the building itself seems to tremble in anticipation.

The three people upstairs talk quietly in calm voices, two of them explaining a very hidden world to the woman with a glass in her hands. It would be easy to forget their current situation and need for haste, if it weren't for the toppled bookshelf behind them and the unconscious Troll beneath. Even then, their mannerisms give nothing away about what is bound to occur.

 _"SÍOL!"_ a voice bellows and the owner nearly breaks down the basement door in his haste. "Get down!"

The youth tackles his foster-brother to the ground just as the lights crackle out, leaving them in complete darkness. His breath is quick, almost nonexistent as he covers the boy's head. The skin on his back tingles like lightning with the display of magic, raising the hair on his head to a crow's nest.

"He's in the house," he whispers, holding a hand over the shell-shocked boy's mouth. "Came from the sewers."

"And you didn't try to stop him?!" Stricklander snaps quietly, hands firmly gripping the crossbow in his grasp.

"I'm not exactly armed!" he hisses, rolling off Jim.

"You're the damned druid!"

"Oh, for Dreya's sake!" Esmerion cries, a small flare of bronze flaring in his eyes. "Shut up an' focus!"

The Trollhunter glances between them, feeling both confused and betrayed, while he forgets the other in the room. He wants to know _why_. Why the two are bickering like they know each other through a professional environment. Sure, he knows that they were close during school hours, but this is an entirely different setting.

His foster-brother suddenly whips around to face him, eyes wider than saucers. "Jim!"

The boy spins on a dime, and narrowly dodges a blast of purple magic.

"Pay attention, lad!" he scolds, helping up the woman beside him. "We 'ave no time for this."

"Tyler?" Barbara mutters in question, panic evident on her features. "What are you—?"

"A question for another time, I might think," Strickler takes her arm carefully and pulls her behind an upturned table.

A low growl leaves the youth, animalistic in nature and unnatural. His pupils seem to narrow into slits, taking in each detail of the shadows. He knows that the assassin is taunting him, mocking his ability, and he won't stand for it.

"For the glory of Merlin, Daylight is mine to command," Jim commands softly, his body becoming briefly encased by wisps blue light.

"Jim, you're glowing! H-how are you glowing?" his mother asks urgently, eyes wide with panic.

"It's armour, Mom," he assures, pulling Daylight off his back. "It comes with the job."

"Does tickin' off yer enemies come with it too?"

"What?" Jim glares shortly at his foster-brother.

"Nothin'," he quips, turning his back to the Trollhunter's.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" His sword flashes dimly as he waves it cautiously in the air in front of him. "Like how you're suddenly real chummy with Strickler?"

The youth snarls quietly, his fingers curling into claws. Shades of amber in his eyes shift into something warm, glowing softly in the pitch black shadows.

"It can wait," he decides firmly.

The air smells wrong, almost like dense fog in a dark corner of the woods. It makes his fingers twitch and his gut unsettled by how he cannot sense his opponent. Anything that stands against is fair game, and it is not a game he wishes to partake in.

A sharp yelp echoes shrilly in the air as the youth is thrown into the wall, his bones cracking from the impact. Jim barely has time to raise his sword before he's met by the short blade of Angor Rot. His arms tremble with exertion, trying desperately to force back the poisoned blade.

"Tyler!" Barbara cries, trying to reach for the fallen youth, only to be pulled back by Strickler.

"You did not run, brave hunter," the assassin taunts with a voice alike to gravel. "But the brave are the first to die."

"Go! Go!" the Trollhunter orders the two behind him with a sharp breath, eyes narrowing one the stony face of his opponent. "Get her out of here!"

The woman cries out in protest as the Changeling drags her away, trying desperately to reach her two boys. When that doesn't work, she resorts to feebly stamping her heel on the man's feet. But he can't let her be harmed.

A roar of fury makes Jim's grip falter, and the poisoned blade tip slides closer to his chest. The person it belongs to slams into the stone body of the Troll, knocking him backwards several feet. They carry no weapon but their own brute strength, and they wrestle determinedly against the assassin.

"Tyler?" He nearly stops short at the recognition of the male. 

The youth grunts as his grip on the Troll's arm slips, making it harder for him to attempt to pin him down. "Don't jus' stand there!"

Jim jumps into action immediately, snapping from his stupor with great haste, and swings down his blade at the occupied assassin. He had been hoping to at least maim Angor Rot in his blow. Not at all for the skilled male to catch it in his free hand.

Something cracks hollowly, and his foster-brother curses foully, snapping his jaw shut to prevent a scream from escaping. One of his wrists has broken, and the distraction allows the Troll the opportunity to arise from under his force.

A blade falls toward him, and Jim drops beneath it, dashing to the side to avoid being hit. He wishes to come out of this unscathed, not a statue of stone.

 _"Sìol!"_ Esmerion kicks at the assassin's wrist, trying to knock one of the daggers from his hand.

He misses, and consequently scrambles back to dodge being gutted. It comes down at him again, forcing him to roll aside where he jumps to his feet. What he won't give for a weapon of sorts.

Iron flashes in the corner of his eye and he leans back swiftly, inhaling sharply at the sight of the gleaming weapon wedged in the wall. It practically glows with magic force, a promise of an unpleasant death awaiting at the slightest touch of the sharpened edge. This isn't what he meant.

Unable to touch iron, and backed into a corner, the youth snarls at the advancing foe, warning against another step. With that going ignored, he crouches low to the ground, ready to spring up with as much force as necessary. Another snarl leaves him, canines bared as his lips curl in hatred for the Troll.

"How low you've become, Esmerion," Angor Rot growls, a cruel smirk on his lips. "I recall when you would have called this savagery."

A low, resonant note forms on the youth's tongue as his eyes narrow at the approaching Troll. "Yer confusin' me with me brother, _bhiast_."

 _"Vaša smrť nebude rýchla ani príjemná. Budem mať veľkú radosť pri vyrezávaní vášho srdca,"_ the assassin promises, ripping his blade of iron from the wall. "Meet your end, _Skvelé Drak_."

Esmerion cries out for the glory of battle, leaping forward without a second thought. He collides with the Troll with as much force as he can muster and he swears he can taste the poison on his tongue. Though prepared for the blow, they're knocked off balance, and the youth uses it to his advantage.

He beats his fists against Angor Rot's head as he kicks at his arms to delay an attack, completely disregarding his snapped bones. It topples them, and he jumps from the Troll's shoulders and lands with a roll on the hardwood. He slides to Jim's side, who grips the previously abandoned crossbow in his hands.

Without so much as a word, Jim pulls the trigger and the arrow flies toward the Troll, targeted at his chest. He fails to even flinch and catches the projectile in his hand with a smirk.

"You have to be faster than that," he remarks tauntingly.

Esmerion raises a brow in question, watching the knives in the kitchen start to rattle. They fly through the island opening toward the assassin, pinning him to the wall. Chunks of drywall rain over them and the boys shield themselves as the fridge crashes through the wall. One should never speak so soon.

"Jim!" he warns the relaxing Trollhunter. Angor Rot doesn't seem to enjoy such tricks.

The boy cries out in slight panic and scrambles up, pulling his foster-brother with him. He slashes out with Daylight, trying to catch the assassin in a small moment of vulnerability. He's met with the sound of clashing steel.

A feral grin spreads across the male's features, growing with every step he gains on the inexperienced child. He knows that he's won this fight, that this whelp will lay on the floor with his intestines spilling out on to the wood.

Then another force joins the first, and the youthful male is aiding the younger, his hands firmly on the dull of the blade. They're evenly matched against the other.

A low growl resonates from Esmerion's throat and his eye twitches slightly. Then, with a shout, he heaves the sword forward and risks his hands to disarm the Troll. The poisoned blade makes a 'thunk' as it embeds itself in the ceiling.

Jim thrusts forward with Daylight, only to find himself yanked back just as the blade disappears in a cloud of yellow smoke. The sword reappears in their opponent's hands, revealing the sharp smirk on the Troll's lips.

"Well, wouldn't that 'ave been wonderful to know," the youth growls in frustration.

"Yeah, well, you were supposed be at Shannon's for the night," Jim comments dryly.

"Clearly, that was a lie."

"No kidding!" He shouts in annoyance, dropping to the floor to avoid being skewered by his own blade.

Esmerion snorts, snatching the tall lamp from the corner of the room. He adjusts his grip on it and observes for a moment as Jim pulls two small blades from his thigh guards. The boy is stuck in a definite losing battle, trembling against the weight of his own weapon. Time to intervene.

He opts to make no sound, and raises the metal pole above his head. His feet tread lightly as he makes his approach, well within the blind spot of the Troll. And he swings downward. _Hard._

Imagine his surprise when the pole bends on the Troll's head, doing absolutely _nothing_ but ticking off his enemy.

"Marvelous," he comments.

A tendril of purple magic throws him into the drywall. His spine makes a splendorous 'crack' as the wind rushes from his lungs.

Jim cries out in a panic, seeing his foster-brother go limp in the clutches of Angor Rot's magic. He swings his blades up to deflect an attack and starts toward the youth with an air of determination. But cockiness gets you killed.

A hard kick lands itself in his gut, and he crashes into the wall alongside his friend. The impact shatters his focus and his blades disappear with a puff of pale light. Dark swirls of magic curl around his limbs and he's lifted into the air, dragged close to the assassin's face.

"Such a shame," he purrs mockingly. "You would have made a fine addition to the Pale Lady's forces."

A sharp inhalation of air echoes in the deadly quiet room, and Jim grows aware of his foster-brother's horrified gaze.

 _"Ticho!"_ Angor Rot commands, and the youth snaps his mouth shut.

Jim squirms desperately against the magical force holding him in place. He knows it's no use. But he'll die before he gives up.

Then he roars as a rain of blades ricochet off his shoulder, knocking him away from the boys. His attention is drawn away and his hold on his magic slips, allowing the two young males to escape his clutches.

Esmerion grunts as he lands, finding quick balance on his two feet before launching himself up to stand beside his allies. A maddened grin finds a place on his lips at the sight of the Changeling's true form and he snarls lowly in greeting. It's been far too long since he's had to actually fight for his life.

"Let's put down this mad dog!" Stricklander calls out to the two boys, who respond with equal expressions determination.

The youth flashes him a sharp smirk, eyes glowing dimly in the darkness before he barrels straight into the Troll without so much as a warning. There's only one goal in his mind. Buy time.

He grips the assassin's sword-arm in his uninjured hand, holding it as high as he can reach as his broken hand interlocks with his foe's. Despite his significantly smaller size, he holds up as an equal, wrestling to push him back into the corner. 

Hatred blazes within his eyes, glowing brighter with every passing moment. A roar of battle rattles his vocal cords and he slams the Troll into the wall. Drywall rains over the both of them and he grins at the sound of his allies making their 'escape' up the stairs.

"Only one of us will come out of this, uncrippled," he snarls in promise. "I cannot say who it will be."

Angor Rot glares back, twisting his hand to deter the lad. There's a definite 'snap' and 'pop', and Esmerion can't help but release a small cry of pain. But he doesn't falter. Not once.

"I can," the Troll sneers, picking up the youth with little effort. "It will not be me."

He tosses his opponent aside as though he is nothing more than a mere doll, watching with satisfaction as he sets off a trap and a bookshelf topples over on top of him. Nothing but a hand is visible, a bruised and bloody one at that.

Now to seek out his prize.

Esmerion sways between consciousness and unwarranted slumber. His head feels beyond heavy, and the possibility of a concussion fleetingly passes through his mind. At least he can think straight. That's about it on his list of positives, though.

A scream from upstairs startles him into jolting, an action he sincerely regrets as it brings him immense pain. A gurgled cry of his own leaves his split lips, blood dribbling down from the small wound. 

But he can't let anything happen to them. Not to his family. Not this time.

He heaves upward, paying little mind to his disfigured arm. His spine cracks and his head woozes from the movement, and yet he keeps going. He refuses to be downed by a piece of furniture.

With all his might, he knocks the bookshelf back, ignoring it as something shatters. He's hard set in his determination, and he barely notices the massive black and blue bruises entwining up his limb. It takes the concerned call of his foster-brother to gain his full attention, and even then, it's waning.

"Where's Draal?"

Jim gestures vaguely up the stairs as he half carries his mother out towards the car. 

Esmerion curses beneath his breath and stands aside as his mentor limps from the house. They need to get going. Now.

"Tyler," Jim calls, trying to get the youth in the vehicle as the adults climb in.

He shakes his head, lifting his eyes to the upstairs window of Jim's room. He can visibly see Draal holding back the assassin with his horns. "Ye get goin'. I'll keep up."

"What?" the boy asks, terrified of leaving the youth behind. "We're not doing that."

"Take 'em to Trollmarket," he commands, shooting a stern glare at his former teacher. "Make sure they get there, Stricklander."

The elder nods firmly, slamming his door shut and starting the ignition. He ignores the desperate protests of the Trollhunter in the back. 

Esmerion gives Jim an apologetic look, however brief it may have been, and smiles. It's sincere and he's truly sorry for raising such distress. But only he can do this.

He rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck, bouncing on his toes for a moment. It's essential that he gets moving soon. Maybe he should have joined the Track and Field team.

Something in the house shatters, and he starts forward. His feet race across the tarmac with little issue, growing faster with each passing second. He can't leave them to defend themselves. No, he's going to stand as their shield.

Sweat gleams on his brow as he pushes onward, striving with each step that he go harder. Faster. He cannot pause to think of the times he did this as a lad, chasing after others. He cannot allow his mind to linger on such trivial things.

The car bumper grows closer, and soon he's keeping pace, eyes narrowed on the road in front of him. He doesn't dare spare a glance at Barbara inside. He already knows what awaits her if they cannot make it.

A blast of blazing magic nips his heels and he barely manages to avoid going flying. Damn it all. Of course the puppet's following in pursuit.

He grits his teeth and leaps onto the car trunk, gripping as tight as he dares. A feral expression controls his features, and as another blast propels toward them, he cups it, snatching it right of the air before sending it flying back at its master.

Blast after blast finds a target of the youth, and blast after blast fails to touch him. He controls it all with a single wave of his hand and the soft glow of his eyes.

"Take the way through the woods!" He calls back to Stricklander, who balks at the suggestion. "It'll be quick!"

Somehow—and with a bit of a miracle—the youth stays on the car, and only ducks to avoid the branches flying over his head. His grip remains tight enough to dent the metal, and yet he doesn't care. He can't see Angor Rot, and it makes him uneasy.

His discomfort is reasonable.

He cries out in surprise as he's tackled off the vehicle, flying out of the woods and falling to the concrete bottom of the canal. More than his skull cracks against the stone and it seems as though his ribs have given up on him, as they flare in agony and snap clearly.

Esmerion roars in pain and tumbles across the concrete, rolling unwillingly beneath the bridge. He can hardly move now, and black dances across his vision, mocking him for his weakness.

"Humans are so fragile," Angor Rot growls with pleasure. "You are weak, _Skvelé Drak._ "

The youth lets loose a whimpering snarl, pathetic in menacing tone. He will not stand for this, though he has little choice.

His senses tingle dully, and he rolls his head to view the towering Troll. Smoke of indigo shades twists around his body, encircling his hands with spheres of deadly power. The sight alone would make any sane person quiver in their boots.

But he hasn't been properly sane for centuries.

With a scream worthy of a Valkyrie, he pulls himself up to his feet and tackles the assassin. His hands scramble for a grip and he proudly headbutts Angor Rot hard enough to make him stumble.

The Troll's own hands press against the youth's chest with a yell, pulsing bright colours into his system. They both alight like a firework, draining each other of forces not meant to be tampered with. And with one protecting his family and the other seeking revenge, neither care enough to scream.

He's vaguely aware of the smell of burning rubber and the sound of an engine, but Esmerion snarls viciously. Animal-like behaviour is taking over and he's just running on instinct and forcefully fed power. He cares little for the approach of the vehicle. Just buying more time.

A particularly strengthened pulse shoots up his spine and his body curls back, straining to keep his muscles taut. It gives Angor the chance to kick off the youth and regain a bit of his own strength.

Esmerion stumbles back, knowing full well that the canal wall is behind him. Knowing that the doorway is shut. There is no escape for him.

 _"Vaše črevá sa vyliajú na tento kameň a vrany vyčistia vaše jatočné telo,"_ the Troll snarls loathfully. _"Budú počuť vaše výkriky."_

 _"Cha bhithinn a 'cunntadh air,"_ the youth huffs, clutching his arm to his gut. And he runs.

And the doorway opens without command.


	26. Chapter 26

_"The fallen ones stand tallest in a crowd when they crawl back on their feet."_

He hadn't actually expected to fall through. He was very prepared to smash into the wall. And yet, the barrier opened for him.

A short scream of agony rips from his lips as he collapses to the stone ground. His bones crack and his vision goes white, blinding him for brief seconds.

Oh, how he wishes everything felt numb. Very few instances have ever caused this much pain on his behalf. The drawn runes on his bruised hand glow a dim gold.

"M-Muninn," he gasps, clawing at the ground with bloodied, broken nails. **_"Ge reccenddôm êower mandryhten."_**

Esmerion screams in silent torture as a small stream of foreign magic flows from his tongue, ripping up his throat. It is not his own. It obeys his wishes only by force of power but it refuses to make it pleasant.

He dry heaves onto the stone, his stomach wanting to reject everything in his system. But there's nothing to reject. 

Tears stain his eyes, sending streams of dim amber light to splatter the walls. They slide down his cheeks, rivulets rolling between his largest wounds. A salty trail follows in their wake, a trail that stings all of which it touches.

He bites his tongue, holding back a cry of agony as he rolls onto his side. Blistering pain rushes up his arm and infects his chest, burning like smoldering coals pressed against his flesh. It sends a wave of bursting white hot sensations up his spine that blasts into the back of his head.

It's impossible, he can't help it. A hollow scream comes forth from his battered lungs, going unheard in the commotion outside the passageway. Echoing with desperation and suffering, it tears him apart, ringing in his ears like bells.

The youth grits his teeth, breathing heavily as spittle flies from his lips. He can hear his own heartbeat, a sound akin to a thousand war drums as it thunders within his chest. Everything fades in slow pulses of black, coming in and out of focus as he gets on his knees.

He cries silently, resisting the overwhelming urge to sob. But he finds his feet, unsteadily gripping on to the cavern wall as he stumbles, broken arm hanging limp by his side. Esmerion takes a weary step, crying out when his legs cannot hold his weight.

Pale blue alights in his bleary vision, spiraling downwards in a slow and smooth motion. It belongs to a staircase of crystal, tainted only by small cracks in the surface. Briefly he wonders what it will look like when slickened by his own crimson blood.

His steps echo softly, multiplied by the cavern walls that surround him. He knows not where he is, only that it is safe from the malevolent slave. So he keeps going, wincing with every step and subtle movement.

Blood oozes from his wounds, dribbling down his face and arms in rivers of red. It stains his dirtied shirt an ugly colour that delivers memories that lie where they were left to be forgotten. They remind him of events that he had forcibly trampled into his past.

A pained groan flies from his lips and his moment of distraction leaves him vulnerable to mistake. His foot catches on a more obscure shard of crystal and he falls forward, hitting the ground with more force than he had hoped

He cries out in agony, curling in on himself at the bottom of the stairway. His shoulders tremble as he tries to keep the display of weakness at bay, barely aware that he's nearly bitten away a chunk of his lip. Nothing can be better than an end to this suffering.

Someone grunts irritably, and a snuffling sound fills his ringing ears. Although he's well aware of their presence, he doesn't move, finding no motivation nor purpose to do so.

A large hand of stone plucks him unceremoniously from the floor, roughly gripping the back of his shirt. Esmerion whimpers in pain but makes no attempt to protest.

"There's another!"

He cringes inward as the intense pounding of his head worsens from the presumable Troll's volume. But he hangs limply like a doll in their hold.

"Crush the Changelings!" Multiple voices chant in anger and the youth can feel his Troll walking somewhere. "Kill the Impures!"

"Esmerion!" a voice calls frantically below him. "Release the boy! He's not a Changeling!"

"You would say that," someone grunts and he gets the impression that they're threatening the speaker. "It could be part of your plan!"

"St-Stricklander?" Esmerion whimpers, struggling to raise his head. "P-please. Help."

This provokes shouts of vicious end and cruel taste. The crowd snarls with cries for fresh blood, oblivious to the amount already trickling down the youth's body.

He yelps as his holder jostles him, a sound that bubbles swiftly into a scream. His insides are tearing him apart, his power is conflicting against itself. Sensations of blistering burns and chilling bites toil within his soul as he fights for calm and control.

He knows the violet smoke is swirling around him like a hurricane, that the blinding light is terrifying those in the crowd. He knows that the biting wind caused by his own ochre force is knocking away the supposed assailants, the turmoil created between the two shades drawing tortured screams from his throat.

Then a hand grips his ankle, a human one—someone he can trust—and he bursts. Wind blows over everything and everyone in the vicinity, carts and trolleys and signs and weapons all topple. A ring of charred stone encircles the now standing youth, blackened in to patterned shadows of spoils. The carnage is unimaginable.

Esmerion wavers, teetering on his two feet as the glow in his eyes flickers out. A soft groan of exhaustion flutters out from his lips while he struggles again the lull of unconsciousness pressing against the inside of his brain.

"For the record," he manages weakly, unfocused eyes locked on the blurred figure of Stricklander, "I'm not a druid."

And then his eyes roll into the back of his head and he collapses to the stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! I know we're almost at the end of the book but I was wondering what you think of the story? Do you like it? Do you enjoy the mystery around Esmerion? I know there hasn't really been much to tie the two fandoms together, but I promise there'll be more Merlin stuff in the second book!


	27. Chapter 27

_"Darkness is not rising, for it has already come."_

His eyes flutter open, blinking away the bleariness in them. What he does not expect to see is a pale white Troll with eyes like clouds staring down at him.

Startled, Esmerion yelps and jolts backward, falling off whatever kind of platform he had been on. Another cry wheezes from his chest, this time it being one of pain as the Troll observes with mild amusement and considerate disapproval.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The youth mumbles some particularly nasty expletives under his breath as he sits up on the floor. It takes a few seconds for him to recognize that he is in fact topless and that his injuries are wrapped in bandages. His left arm—why always the left?—dons a skillfully made splint constructed of fresh bandage and firm sticks. He smells like a herb garden.

"I'll keep that in mind," he mutters to himself, completely ignoring the presence of the elder Troll.

"You have been here for less than four hours and so far you've broken through the barrier without a Horngazel, started a riot, and completely flattened half of Trollmarket!" the voice of the elder accuses sternly, slamming the bottom of his glowing staff on the stone. He narrows his eyes at the unfazed youth, frowning to himself. "Who are you?"

Esmerion gazes at him dully, now standing with little issue. He carefully unwraps the white bandage from around his broken arm, judging the stranger with caution. "Someone who's been forgotten."

The Troll snorts, pacing around the stone table with an air of purpose. "Whoever you are, I demand that you stop undoing my hard work."

He raises a brow but doesn't cease his motion, and places the sticks on the side in a neat row. "Me apologies, but there is no need for it now that I'm up."

He winces at the sight of his arm, entirely purple with black splotches staining his elbow and wrist. However, he finishes his job of rolling up the bandage and puts it down beside the sticks. Then he delicately traces the fingers of his uninjured hand over the bruised limb, muttering softly.

The Troll's eyes widen, looking taken aback and alarmed by this display. Ochre blossoms from the youth's fingertips and he watches in fascination as it swirls over his injury. Hollow cracks echo in the warmly lit cavern, the sound of bones snapping back into place.

The youth flexes his fingers slowly, turning his hand over with caution. Sure, he winces as it disrupts his bruises, but he can move it freely. A fantastic start.

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank the Triple Goddess. I wasn't sure that was gonna work."

"You're—" the elder takes a small moment to regain himself, "—not a Changeling."

Esmerion snorts, jerking his head in a way the suggests offence. "'Ad I been a Changelin', that outburst woulda killed me."

He hums scornfully, rusted gears turning in his head. There's something familiar about the lad's attitude. Something he hasn't seen for many years.

"Now," the youth begins wrapping up his arm once again. "Tell me, Vendel, where is the Trollhunter?"

The Troll definitely stops short, eyes narrowing at this limp excuse for a flesh bag. "And how is it that you know who I am?"

Esmerion freezes, realising his mistake. He wants to curse himself out for his own stupidity. _"Sèid mi gu ifrinn..."_

To his absurdly good fortune, someone takes the opportunity to walk in at that exact moment. Although that fortune wavers when he recognizes the person as James Lake Junior, who, despite his obvious relief at the sight of his foster-brother standing on his feet, bares a troubled expression of caution and suspicion.

"Ah, hullo, Jim," the youth greets somewhat hurriedly, more than happy to avoid the topic of his knowledge.

He receives no response.

"Jim?" he questions quietly and he immediately notices that something's off. The boy has exceedingly dark rings beneath his eyes and a permanent scowl creases his brows. He holds an unreasonably tight grip on the hilt of his sword, though he has not removed it from its sheath.

"How many?"

Esmerion blinks, tilting his head as he comprehends the question. "I do not understand."

"How many lies have you told me?" he spits, briefly glancing at Vendel before focusing back on his target. 

The youth remains silent, returning his attention to re-wrapping his injury. He does not look up as the Trollhunter steps ever closer, nor does he halt in his motion when the sound of grating metal grinds in his ears.

"How many?!" Jim cries, pointing the tip of Daylight at his friend, tears welling in his eyes.

"Two," he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides as he lifts his head to meet the eyes of his trusted companion.

The Trollhunter falters slightly and disbelief crosses his features. He doesn't trust the boy he has come to love. "Why?"

Again, the youth sighs, leaning against the stone examination table. There's apology in his warm eyes. "Because I want ye safe. An' keeping secrets is easier than telling false tales to yer loved ones."

"What secrets?" Jim presses, tilting the sword closer to his bandaged chest. "Why have you kept so many? Who are you really, if not my brother?"

His expression hardens and he moves the sword tip aside with the back of his hand. "Enough with this foolishness, James Lake!"

He swipes Daylight back up in an instant, only this time the cold metal touches the soft skin of his unprotected throat. But it doesn't draw blood.

"It won't let ye do that," he claims with a tone equal to steel. "Ye may try all ye like, but it's not gonna comply to ye."

"How do you mean?"

Esmerion's eyes flare with delicate light as he slips his uninjured hand down the edge of the blade. Not a scratch is made in his flesh.

"Enchantments are powerful thin's," he says softly, lifting the sword away from his self. "Secrets are kept as they are through silence, me friend. I keep 'em to protect others an' meself."

Jim stands in confusion, rooted to the spot by an emotion he cannot trace. But he turns to face the youth as he steps out from behind the table and gracefully paces the floor. His tears might as well be pools in his eyes, formed by feelings of broken trust and betrayal that now cloud his mind.

"I 'ave only lied to ye twice since I met ye, Jim." He regards the boy with a gentle tone. "An' only in the past week."

"What's the truth, then?" Jim demands, though the quake in his voice gives away his steadiness.

The youth pauses, fiddling with the ring on his finger. "I... am not Tyler Reynolds, and I remember everything."


	28. Chapter 28

_"There are mistakes in all that we do, which is why we must learn from them."_

"Tyl-er-Esmerion, how long ago did you regain your memories?"

The youth grimaces slightly, running a hand through his bronze hair to calm himself. "The incident with the Pixies. Nasty little buggers."

Jim frowns at him but agrees nonetheless. They had all hated the experience and wish it were easy to forget. Even if Angor Rot had not been involved, the Pixies were a literal nightmare.

"And how-" he gestures wildly to the scorch marks and flattened wreckage of market stalls, "-did you manage this?"

Esmerion chuckles quietly, pulling the cloak further over his shoulders. Most of the inhabitants make a mad dash to get out of the way as he wanders the street of Trollmarket with Jim, though he can feel the burning gaze of those that they pass. It doesn't bother him much, it just makes this conversation a little less private.

"Perhaps that is a question to be answered elsewhere." He eyes a particularly unbothered Troll standing too close for any real comfort. "Do you mind?"

"Whatever," says the Troll and he wanders away.

"Look, Jim, me point is that I can't discuss this out 'ere." He bumps the boy's shoulder lightly. "I need somewhere with a sense of security."

Jim smiles weakly, only for it to fall moments later. The dull look is back in his eyes and any mask of pleasantness has slipped from his grasp. His mind is not in the moment, nor is it within the area of their traversing.

"Jim?" Esmerion stops his light playfulness to carefully examine the boy. He tilts his head slightly and places a hand on his arm, sympathy reflecting in his eyes. "Oh, Jim. She'll do well, y'know? If she can take down a Troll as strong as Draal with nothing but a bottle o' perfume, she can make it through this."

The young Trollhunter nods, eyes downcast and dark. It's not difficult to see his distress, nor is it hard to sense his growing turmoil.

"Come 'ere," he offers, pulling his friend into a hug. He rests his chin on the head of the boy, allowing himself to become a place of comfort. "We'll go see her, yeah? We'll go an' see her."

《《》》

"Kanjigar warned me about this," Jim says sullenly. "Trollhunters shouldn't have personal connections."

This earns him a gentle squeeze from his foster-brother, who stands with his arms around the boy's middle. He doesn't particularly care about how his position might be perceived, so long as he provides some sort of comfort.

Both Esmerion and Blinky-who he had learnt the name of only moments ago-scoff quietly at the claim.

"Yes, and forgive me for disagreeing, but Kanjigar was wrong." The Troll shakes his head, placing two of his hands on his shoulders. "If there's one thing I've learned in my time as a member of your species, Master Jim, it's that the human bond, your love for each other is your greatest strength."

"'E's right," the bronze-haired boy comments softly. "Human bonds, parental or otherwise, can be much stronger than anythin' ye know. Love is the greatest weapon an' the strongest defense."

Blinky nods in agreement, hiding his unease well. "No matter what magic Vendel is able to work, make no mistake, it will ultimately be the love you share with her, that will see her through."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

Esmerion gently nudges Jim, resting his head on the boy's shoulder. "Of course 'e is. But trust me when I say it's true."

He makes a small sound of resistance as his foster-brother blows into his ear, trying to escape the clutches of someone so much taller than him. It doesn't work, and a pathetic snort of repressed laughter leaves him. At least he's a little cheered up now.

"Go an' see yer mother, Jim." He unwinds himself from the boy, freeing him to do as he wishes. "I'll be along in moment."

"You sure?" An almost innocent sounding question if the teen hadn't already seen what were possible when his sib is left to his own devices.

He nods, standing tall alongside the Conundrum Troll. His hands fill the pockets of his torn trousers while he cozies into his borrowed cloak. But while he wears a neutral expression, his eyes display his true concern and fear.

"I 'ave a few thin's to share with Blinkous," he claims, glancing over at the six-eyed Troll. "Nothin' to be worried 'bout."

Jim frowns but goes on anyways, brushing aside any suspicions or thoughts of distrust. It's his brother and Blinky, it's not like they're plotting to take over the world.

After watching the boy silently for a few moments, Esmerion addresses his current companion. "It's been a long time since I last saw a Heartstone."

Blinky starts, staring at him in confusion.

"I might 'ave been a wee lad at the time," he chuckles softly, though there's something bittersweet about his tone. "Can't be so sure though."

The Troll stops his staring and clears his throat, making himself the fool. "That's impossible. I-I don't see why you're poking fun at me during such momentous events."

A brief sidelong glance at Esmerion finds that he bares no telltale signs of jest. His arms are crossed weakly as he leans against a crystal and his eyes do not flicker with amusement.

"But that simply _cannot_ be true," he rambles animatedly, waving his four arms about. "That would make you...over one thousand years of age! Humans rarely reach a century, and even then you retain every trait of childhood. There is no possible way for you to have lived so long."

The youth raises a brow, unaffected by the continuous spew of information. But this catches the fleeting attention of the librarian.

" _Unless_..." he starts up again, counting numerous possibilities on his fingers. "If you have access to a philosopher's stone, or maybe unicorn blood-but they died out decades ago-perhaps some sort of Arthurian talisman. But no, you would look like Miracle Max even if you were to use them."

Blinky lets out a short laugh of apparent amusement. He shakes his head and wrings his hands together as he forces the thought from his mind, though it remains to plague him. Sweat rolls down his forehead.

"The last philosopher's stone was shattered centuries ago an' all the Arthurian talismans were locked in London's great vault," Esmerion comments softly. "I'm not tellin' ye a lie, Blinkous. I remember Camelot."

In the corner of his eye, he can see the Troll stiffen. His short mane stands on end and each of his eyes are open wide. It might be amusing if the situation were different.

"It's where I met Draal," he snorts at the memory. "Speakin' of, no-one 'as gone down to the Lake house, 'ave they?"

Though his feathers are rather ruffled, Blinky forcibly reminds himself to breathe. "Not as of yet."

He hums quietly, wincing when he bites his _very_ tender lip. "Might wanna get someone to go over. Draal's probably still stuck in that encirclement trap."

"How might you have possibly come to know Draal?"

Esmerion shrugs lightly, pushing off the crystal to join Jim. "Ask 'im yerself once 'e stops 'is little fit."

Blinkous stares at him for a moment longer before promptly turning on his heel and striding down the passageway. He needs to do some research himself. He needs to figure out this _conundrum_.


	29. Chapter 29

_"It is not but a passage of faith."_

Esmerion sighs. Jim shifts slightly in his sleep.

The boys had engaged themselves in a small discussion of safety with their mother only a few minutes ago. Actually, that was twenty minutes ago at ten o' clock.

Something in the air shifts and the bronze-haired youth finds himself restless. It's nothing bad, but he's been sitting around for the past forty minutes and the thought of remaining unmoving for who knows how long makes him feel ill. He's not meant to be rooted in one spot for lengthy periods of time.

_"I'm your mother. I protect you."_

He shakes his head, clearing the recent memory. An appreciated sentiment. Not one he can accept, unfortunately.

He lets out a small breath and looks down at his brother with a hidden smile. The boy sleeps in his armour, exhaustion quite evident on his peaceful features. In an earlier and unconscious decision, he had claimed the youth as a sort of pillow, resting his head on the elder's shoulder.

Esmerion brushes back the boy's raven hair, tucking it behind his ear before shifting his position. He's careful enough that when he stands, Jim doesn't awake from his much-needed slumber.

A worn smile tugs at his lips at the sight of both sleeping people, though he whisks it away without so much as a wave of his hand. A small frown replaces it and he tears his eyes away from the peaceful duo. If either one of them ends up...

It will be his own damned fault.

He snarls at himself, turning on his heel to exit the Heartstone chamber. To which he is met by Vendel, who stands in the archway with a troubled expression.

"Vendel," Esmerion greets the Troll without a trace of emotion. "Is there somethin' I can do for ye?"

The elder Troll studies him for a few seconds. "If you can tell me how to undo the binding spell--"

He tunes out as his attention is drawn to something outside the chamber, a frown etching itself on his lips.

"What on this good earth," he mutters, ignoring Vendel as he wanders off to investigate. Though it seems the Troll has gained a concern for the matter as well, given how he turns to address the issue.

There are shouts of panic and vengeance, reverberating off the crystal walls and shaking the air. They grow ever louder with each passing second, to the point that Esmerion begins to wonder if the Trolls are rioting.

As he goes to step outside the chamber, Vendel pulls him back, barely avoiding being trampled by the crowd. They all bear the same expressions of fear and anger, determination displayed in the way they hold themselves.

"What in Merlin's name is going on?" Vendel demands an answer from a nearby Troll--who happens to be Blinkous.

"I do not know," he replies, staring at the crowd in bewilderment. "There is apparently something within Trollmarket."

Esmerion frowns at this, trying to see into the middle of the gathering. It can't be anything that poses a threat, for if it were, the Trolls would be screaming instead and the atmosphere would feel more disrupted. Whatever it is, it's familiar.

Then his eyes widen in his recognition, and he dodges around a stampeding individual with haste. Blinky calls out to him, though he ignores him, scampering between the legs and bodies of rioters. The destination means that he cannot stop, if he did, there's no doubt that the crowd will grow worse.

 _"SÀMHCHAIR!"_ he bellows at such a volume that the crystals growing in the walls tremble and quake.

Complete and utter silence falls over the inhabitants.

"Good gods." He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "How 'bout ye back off? _Now!_ "

The Trolls around him take a huge step back as his eyes flare dangerously. That being said, many brandish their weapons threateningly with a snarl as they watch him.

"'Ello there, Muninn," Esmerion greets softly, raising his arm for the young bird to land on.

Murmurs echo through the crowd, rumours flying like a wildfire. They raise to a shout within seconds and the youth finds himself quickly surrounded.

"Stone the crow!" Someone cries out, accompanied by a wave of agreements.

"Crush the spy!"

"Lock them up!"

Esmerion glances between individuals, growing more furious by the second. They're all fools.

"Enough!" he roars, fire blazing in his eyes as his conflicting magic lashes out in a startling display of yellow and ochre that blasts a burst of wind at the onlookers.

A low snarl curls his lip and his attention darts from Troll to Troll, eventually settling on Vendel. His alarm is warranted, though it goes unnoticed by the youth.

"Are ye so simple minded that ye cannot recognize a raven?" he queries with rageful tact. "He's just a bird anyways, so quit actin' like a bunch o' frenzied kelpies!"

There's quiet for a moment before someone else pipes up, "Bring a gaggletack!"

The youth's eyes widen immediately in his own panic, "No, no, no!"

"Reveal the Changeling!"

Several hands reach out to grab him, holding him in place as Muninn flies above the crowd. "No, no! Stop!"

A gnome runs up to his feet with a shark-like grin of mischief and a horseshoe in its tiny hands. It chirps maliciously as the object is removed from its clutches. It takes everything Esmerion has to not kick the gnome across Trollmarket.

With every moment the gaggletack comes closer and he pulls as far back as he can, struggling in the grip of his captors. He thrashes and bellows in panic, desperate to escape this fate.

"No! Iron burns! Stop!" He turns head away from the horseshoe, teeth grinding in preparation for the worst.

Just as he can begin to feel the heat, another voice interrupts, "Enough!"

The gaggletack is pulled away, leaving Esmerion to collapse in relief. He recognizes the speaker, though the relevance is lost to him within the moment.

"The boy is no Changeling," they continue sternly, and someone helps him up. "Nor is he a spy of Morgana."

"But the crow--"

"Is a raven," their voice leaves no place for argument. "Ravens are protectors. They have do not involve themselves with matters that corrupt the earth."

Esmerion opens his eyes and finds himself surprised to discover Vendel speaking. He had thought the Troll didn't trust him in the slightest. This is a massive improvement.

Blinkous helps him to his feet with only mild fretting, supporting him with two hands. He offers a wary smile to the youth, a point that expresses the slim trust between them. He's only hesitant, something to be expected after the revelation earlier this evening.

"Thank ye," he murmurs, soft enough that only the librarian can hear it.

The youth stands tall, straightening out his cloak. He holds an unwavering air of firm peace, though subtle enough to keep him practically unnoticed in the presence of Vendel.

Muninn croaks lowly before gliding down to land on Esmerion's shoulder. He caws a scolding to the surrounding Trolls, eyeing them all with judgement. Seemingly satisfied with the results, he nips at his caretaker's ear with concern.

He raises a hand and softly strokes the raven's feathers, wandering further into the streets of Trollmarket. There is no thought in his mind that wishes to stick around longer than he must. But he has a destination in mind.

"Don't get yerself into trouble," Esmerion requests, glancing at the young raven as he starts preening the youth's bronze hair. "I won't always be 'ere to 'elp ye."

Muninn croons quietly, reassuring his caretaker as best he can. He had been called, and so he came. But it seems as though the youth has forgotten that.

"Now," he starts again, "we 'ave an important matter to attend to."

《《》》

Stricklander curls against the bars of his prison, nursing his pride and arm. For a creature that thrives in darkness, he has a bizarre dislike of it. Maybe it's the way that it dulls every sense, or perhaps how it hides all that dwells within. In darkness, there is no promise of sanctuary.

Maybe that's why he's so on edge when a pair of glowing eyes appear in the abyss. Two floating orbs of molten metal that study him, judge him even. The owner of which does not become clear until their voice shatters the silence.

"I don't know what else I expected," they admit, and Stricklander sighs in relief. "But I suppose it coulda been worse."

"Esmerion," he greets, leaning forward to view the youth better. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The flapping of wings is unsettling, and the Changeling jolts backward at the horrid sound of claws on metal. A beady eye stares down at him, judging his worth. Then the creature croaks with disapproval and indignantly ruffles its feathers.

"Why protect me?" the youth queries, tilting his head.

"What would have happened if I had not?" Stricklander fires back, his voice weary. "What would have happened if you had further reason to lash out?"

Silence fills the air and he can feel the predatory gaze burning his figure. He's testing deep waters.

"Fire," he says finally, a snarl in his tone. "Ice. And quite likely, death."

"Precisely," the male lowers back against the bars of his cage. "A result of your little face off with Angor Rot, no doubt."

Esmerion snorts, shaking his head sharply, "I already knew that. I channeled me magic into 'im, just as 'e did to me. Causes an imbalance."

"Then you have no more reason to intrude," he sneers.

The youth snorts again, glaring at his former mentor, "Y'know, the Trolls share no love for us, Stricklander. They already tried to be rid of me, and they'll be comin' after ye next."

"And what would you have me do?" He snaps, patience thin and worn.

"Use it to yer advantage," Esmerion suggests almost wisely, though his eyes deceive his true intentions. "Ye 'ave a wee mound of high ground. If ye wanna stay alive, I recommend ye use it."

The Changeling scowls, narrowing his eyes at the unseen boy. "And why should I trust you? For all I know, you are planning to kill me the moment I am free from the spell."

"Curse," he corrects stiffly. "An' ye shouldn't trust me, but while Angor Rot still roams this earth, me sights are set on other thin's."

Stricklander considers this for a moment, eyeing the youth's companion as he edges closer. The raven croaks with uncertainty, clacking his beak along the metal bars for emphasis.

"Why?" he finally asks, confused by the youth's motives.

Esmerion falls silent, only his amber eyes marking his position.

"What would 'appen if I didn't?"


	30. Chapter 30

_"We all have our conflicts; whether it be internal or external. Oftentimes it is both."_

"Master Esmerion!"

The youth spins to face the voice and his eyes widen comically. A short yelp of surprise looses from his lips and he jolts backward as a staff fires past his head and lodges in the Heartstone.

He stares at the distinct markings engraved along the staff in silent horror, but walks up to it nonetheless and pulls it from the crystal with a shaky hand. A shudder of chill runs up his arm, freezing his veins with darkness and settling within his beating heart. And while he ignores this, he can't help but feel relieved by the page of paper pinned to the tip of the staff.

"It's the incantation," he breathes, eyes skimming down the ink lettering. Then he stops breathing altogether, but there's a glimmer of praise in his eyes. "But there's a wee issue."

"What kind of issue?" Jim questions, trying to take the page from his brother's hand.

Esmerion lifts it from his reach and shakes his head slowly, gaze coming to rest on Barbara's near unconscious figure. "Breakin' the curse is gonna cause our dear doctor to lose some of her memories. More specifically, the ones of magic."

"So she won't remember any of this," Jim sighs with defeat, searching his brother for any trace of a lie. Finding none, he slumps, wandering over to his mother's side. 

"'Fraid not," he admits, handing the page to Vendel. 

"What are you saying?" Barbara starts with concern. "I'm gonna forget Trollmarket? That Jim's a Trollhunter and Tyler has magic?"

The youth flinches slightly. Right, he hadn't told her his real name. 

"I'll leave you with a moment of privacy," Vendel says carefully, choosing to lead Blinkous and Stricklander from the chamber. "Then, we should enact the conjuration."

"Agreed," Esmerion straightens, grimacing at the thought of the inevitable conversation.

Vendel does not spare him a hint of sympathy, finding it better to instead judge the youth's actions. He is unsure how to handle his appearance and nature, and acts as such to ensure the safest possible choices are made. It is better to be cautious and wrong, than to be reckless and at threat.

"Guess we're gonna have to start this conversation again, huh?" Jim jokes, smiling weakly at his mother.

"Listen to me, Jim," Barbara starts, eyeing him and his brother, "Tyler. Promise me that we will, okay? It took all this for you to tell me about...your other life."

The boy turns to his foster-brother, pleading silently that he helps. It doesn't sway the lad into coming over but he offers a minuscule smile.

"I...I just didn't want to worry you," he decides. "And I know I have."

"Yes, yes, you have," she agrees with him, cupping his cheek with her hand. He leans into her touch. "I am worried. I'm scared but listen to me. It's my job to worry. And it's not your job to protect me. I want you to know something. Even before you found your amulet—way before all this—you were always my hero. My beautiful boy."

Esmerion looks away. There's a frown on his lips and hurt glimmering in his eyes. It's not her fault, no. But he misses that treatment. The way his own mother bore her love on to him and his siblings. He wants...

"I love you, Mom," Jim murmurs and the youth feels his heart plummet.

"Tyler." The young woman doesn't receive a verbal response, just a jerky motion of acknowledgement. "You might not be _my_ son, but I treat you no different than Jim. I want you to promise me the same. You are greater than you realise and I want you to tell me so I can _help_ you. It is _my_ job to care for you more than it is yours to care for _me_."

He looks at her with sorrow, head bowed in respect or shame—it is unclear. His jaw drops open to speak but his tongue fumbles for the correct words, flicking his teeth in confusion. Eventually, he closes his mouth and looks away, eyes shining with unshed tears of guilt. His knuckles grow white as his fists tighten and he bites his lip harshly.

Barbara sighs weakly, knowing full well that she isn't going to receive an answer—let alone a promise. But it's his choice, and he'll come to her when he needs to.

Esmerion shakes his head sharply, gritting his teeth as he chooses to walk out of the chamber without so much as a word to either person. He brushes past Vendel and Stricklander, and while they briefly spare him a glance, he does not grace them with anything of the likes. 

By the time he's wandered far enough through the caverns to encounter Draal, his magic is vibrating in the air around him, violent enough that it makes the warrior step back. He wants no-one near him—no-one can understand his predicament nor his situation. Hell, his brother wouldn't have been able to understand.

Draal, to his credit, follows the youth with diligence, though he continuously mutters absolute nonsense to himself. But he keeps his distance, wary of what he cannot comprehend. It is only that single factor that keeps him truly safe from the increasing force of conflicted power.

The youth stumbles along the stone wall, eyes going in and out of focus between the shades of orchre and sickly yellow swirling around his head in broken patterns. He's slipping on his hold and he can only just grasp on to the thought. The need to disappear fills his entire being with chill.

 _"Efail yr Arwyr,"_ Draal suggests softly, guiding his companion with the light of his yellow eyes.

He bobs his head in a repetitive motion as he shudders uncontrollably. Vendel must have begun the conjuration. The foreign magic within him rebukes the shattering incantation. 

It is with great difficulty that he follows Draal, refusing the Troll the permission to come any closer than he is. He does not wish to lose the last constant in his life. Any contact with the spinning sphere growing around him will undoubtedly end in disaster.

The blue warrior grows increasingly wary as they wander across the narrow bridge, knowing that—without a doubt—he will catch Esmerion if he is to fall. But he will keep a cautious distance from the youth, on the edge of the pulsating magic.

Esmerion collapses suddenly, not weakened but filled with the intense force of two conflicting magics as yellow clouds his vision. He cries out softly, warning against contact and encounter as the foreign power shreds his own will.

Draal stands aside, hovering beside the archway as he watches with wide eyes. He knows what happens in situations such as this one—he's seen it before. There is nothing that he can do except wait for the stress factor to die down. He does not wait patiently, however.

The youth's cry becomes a plea, a desperate and broken tune that echoes between the frozen Trollhunters above. It wraps around the stilled hearts of those that watch in silence, nagging at them to stop this endless torment. They can do nothing but watch.

He suddenly screams and the dust in the arena swirls around him, repelled by the lashing strength of ancient and foreign sorcery. The yellow tendrils twist like smoke, overpowering the earthly shades of the youth's raw strength, curling in the air as it aggressively rips from his body.

Esmerion can see all of what he's done flashing in the reflection of his eyes; every kind word, each blessing delivered, small actions, gentle displays of affection; every curse borne of his lips, each snarl of cruelty, swinging blades, spilt blood. He hates all he knows, he hates himself for the past. But not a moment would he change.

A bloodcurdling cry tears from his throat and he falls limp, the yellow cloud dispersing from the Hero's Forge. Tears slip down his cheeks without his awareness, wetting the barren stone beneath his head. Exhaustion claims him and all he wishes for is to curl into warmth and comfort. He cannot hold himself forever.

So, when a pair of stone arms lift his body, he leans into to the chest of the Troll and savors the physical touch. The presence calms him, offering what he desires. While he wants safety, he needs peace—something he cannot provide on his own. Even the strongest begin to crumble when they have little support.


	31. Chapter 31

_"The fight will never end. And so, we must march on."_

Esmerion awoke to the cries of a rioting crowd.

Immediately, he shoots upright and searches the room with wide eyes. Surprise warms his heart and he sinks back down as a result. There's very little reason for him to be so frantic.

Familiarity fills his nose, worming its way through his system to tickle his senses and soul. It carries with it a feeling of comfort and promise that has long since been forgotten. Like the warmth of a winter-made nest of quilts and pillows, a wafting scent of something fresh. A sense he hasn't felt since a darker time.

Cautiously, he eases out of the squat building and leaves behind the warm Troll abode with a silent promise to return. It's only once he's out on the street that he realises that he has no idea where he is. But with the scent of someone well known to him and the quieting roars of a gathering, it's easy to find the place he needs to be.

With a small smile, he ducks under the arm of the familiar scent, bumping his head against their palm. Draal blinks in surprise, but accepts this action and shifts slightly to allow the youth more room to sidle up. Neither are concerned by the gathering, which has broken up somewhat.

"What's goin' on?" Esmerion queries with mild confusion. He does generally know what is happening, he just wants to confirm.

"The Trollhunter has rallied Trollmarket," the warrior claims with a tone of pride. "He is preparing us for a fight against Angor Rot."

The youth nods slowly, his distant gaze drawing over to the retreating group. He understands that this will be massive, and that this will take most of their strength. He remembers similar times from his own history when they had to prepare for battle. None are pleasant.

"Show me the armoury."

《《》》

Esmerion growls sourly, twirling a short sword in his hand. It's definitely been a while since he last wielded a blade. The hilt feels wrong in his grasp and the balance is off, though he can still parry with it.

"Something wrong?" Draal cocks his head over the the weapon racks, a battle axe in his hands.

He hums, practicing several thrusts with the blade, "'Feels off."

Draal nods and places down his weapon of choice to assist. "Stretch out your sword-arm. It might be that your grip and strength has changed since you last wielded a sword."

The youth ducks his head in gratitude as the warrior studies his natural stance. It has easily been several centuries since he last handled his own blade, so quite a lot is bound to have changed.

"Try..." Draal replaces his short sword with another blade from the rack, a two-handed greatsword. "This."

Esmerion corrects his grip and plays with the balance of the sword, sliding into position along the hilt. The weapon's blade is waved in a manner akin to lapping ocean-waters; a promise of injury whispering along its edge. Two guards, carved of ivory tusks, find their position on the hilt, the largest placed as a crossguard at the base of the blade while the other rests just shy of the middle of the hilt.

"A _flammenschwert._ " he grins sharply, twirling the waved blade in his hands with ease. "A German weapon from the sixteenth century, if memory serves me right."

"Indeed," the warrior nods, picking his axe back up. "Your build better suits a two-handed weapon; you have changed since we first met."

He chuckles softly, lowering the sword to inspect a dusty chain mail tunic and steel helmet hanging on the armoury wall. Faded and chipped designs lace the steel dome of the medieval helmet, intricate and ornate in their purpose. Gold lettering paint the rim of the metal, their runic meaning lost to time.

"Ye kept 'em?" Esmerion smiles, tracing his fingers over his old armour.

"My father salvaged them from the rubble after you disappeared," Draal hums lowly, staring at the items in question.

"I shall 'ave to thank 'im, then," he hoists the mail tunic off the hook.

He goes quiet, reminiscing old memories. There were times-long ago-when things were simpler and one could wander beyond their home without fear. Those days cannot return in this time.

"Oh," the youth catches his expression and his own smile falters. "'E's gone, isn't 'e?"

"Bular felled him," Draal continues softly. "He died with the honour of a Trollhunter."

Esmerion smiles weakly, slipping the chain mail tunic over his head. "I'm sure 'e did."

《《》》

A nearby Troll shuffles warily, cautious and unnerved by the constant scraping of steel. The sound is a reminder, a remembrance of forgotten days. It is the sound that accompanies war, the shiver that curls your spine. Like the bloodied wood of an execution platform, it attracts the creeping shadows of dark and gleaming light reflects with sparks of flame.

The bearer of such foul snarls rests upon the stone steps, blade in hand as he runs a grinding stone down the metal. Many are quick to assume that he is to rightfully wear a scowl, but his expression displays a kind of peace seen only in tired, war-marred veterans. His hands are steady, without a tremble or shake; well practiced in their art from decades of repetitive motions of preparation.

His gaze is beyond distant, and he mindlessly wanders through wastelands of barren memory, marching down paths created by a thousand feet. He knows these lands well, though he does not wish to tread here. The last time he did, his memory and presence disappeared from the battlefield.

Esmerion is drawn from his pondering by two passing figures and he halts his action mid-sweep, lifting the grinding stone from his blade. He places it beside him and stands tall, silently observing as they navigate the emptied streets of Trollmarket. Not a sound is made as he follows after them, not even when he sheaths his weapon of grandeur.

He prowls in a manner alike to a wolf, eyes narrowed on the backs of his targets and steps cautiously, careful to avoid rallying Gnomes and stray objects of clutter. The shadows mask his figure as he so wishes, every crevice acting as a beckoning promise of shelter. But his eyes gleam in the growing darkness, pupils enlarged by his curiosity. To others, he appears as an omen of ill will.

A smile containing too many sharp teeth is easy to expect from the youth, something predatory in nature, perhaps. And yet, his lips bear nothing but a soft quirk of amusement and acceptance as he listens to the conversation between the people he tails. He stands with patience in the archway, warmth in his features as his eyes glimmer with fondness.

"Are you sure there isn't anything more I can do?" Stricklander asks his former student with an undoubtedly respectful tone. 

Jim shakes his head, turning to the Changeling as they reach the Gyre. "The other Trolls don't trust fighting alongside you. And honestly? Neither do I."

He sighs and stares at the Gyre for a few moments. "You kept your word. And after everything I've done. Once again, you prove have proved you are the hero, and I am--"

"Someone who can change," Jim interrupts and Esmerion smiles with pride.

Stricklander chuckles, shaking his head at the boy. "Your idealism is nearly contagious."

Esmerion snorts softly, his gaze shifting to the Gyre behind the two. However, the sight of a shimmering, blue gemstone in his mentor's hand claims his attention in an instant. It radiates a dull sense of power that sings with a siren's song to the youth, drawing him closer without intention. It does not belong in the hands of a creature so fouled with the innocent blood of others.

"My gratitude cannot be enough."

Jim considers it for a moment, displeasure plain in his expression, "Gee, a friendship rock?"

He growls lowly in quiet warning, cut short as the boy snaps his head to catch sight of him. The Trollhunter tenses with the discovery of this new and scolding gaze, but picks up the gem from Stricklander's hand nevertheless.

"That would 'appen to be Gunmar's eye," Esmerion drawls, giving up his waiting to stand by the Changeling. Jim's eyes widen comically at his chain mail tunic and the greatsword sheathed on his back.

"I thought you could use it after you're done with Angor's eye. I've been holding onto it for centuries and I figured it would be wise to keep it close..." he searches for the right words, "in case you drove a hard bargain to protect me."

"But if I kill Gunmar--" the boy tries, confused as to why he would give this away.

"Save the children?" Stricklander sighs in defeat. "Yes, if you rescue my familiar, then I'll be trapped in my Troll form forever. But there's nothing left for me in the human world. It's not like I'll ever have a future with your mo--"

"Don't," Jim warns firmly, a hard glare in his eyes.

Esmerion throws his head back as he bellows with laughter. It's an unexpected outburst but Stricklander doesn't flinch, only allowing his lips to quirk slightly.

The boy frowns, glancing between the two with scorning. He is not amused in the slightest, and if he's being honest, a bit pissed by the mirth his foster-brother is taking from the situation.

"There are many thin's in the world ye need to worry 'bout, _Curaidh_ ," the youth assures, a wide grin remaining across his cheeks. "Yer mother's relationships aren't one of 'em."

Jim scowls at the youth and bites back a sharp retort, placing the last Triumbric Stone in his pocket. But he regards his former teacher with only a mild look of bitterness, "Goodbye, Mr. Strickler."

The Changeling inclines his head in acknowledgement, though the Trollhunter has turned his back. "You may not believe me, Young Atlas, but I do wish you luck and I do hope we meet again one day."

His voice bounces off the cavern walls, a ghost of the person it belongs to, empty and void of a response. It tells just how much the world has turned these last few weeks. He's been left behind.

"'E'll come 'round," Esmerion assures softly, facing his old mentor with kindness. "It'll just take 'im a bit."

"I'm sure," he sneers sourly, though more of a reminder to himself. "He wasn't exactly delighted when I found my way into his personal life."

The youth snorts in amusement, "Ye did start courtin' 'is mother. An' that's all it ended with."

"Would you blame me?" Stricklander jeers with an undertone of thick sarcasm.

"No," Esmerion shakes his head before he glances back down the tunnel whence he came. "I don't blame people for who they love. Nobody blamed me."

He blinks, choosing to study the youth's unfazed expression of sincerity for any trace of a lie. "If you don't mind me asking, who might that be?"

Esmerion chuckles and lifts a finger to his lips in a secretive gesture, "Nobody blamed me when I chose to court a _Troll_."

The Changeling raises a brow, though fails to appear surprised. His kind have always been odd, even though they have been thoroughly documented in multiple manuscripts. But this is certainly a first. 

"Now, ye must go," he ushers. "Ye cannot risk yerself any more than ye already 'ave."

"I wish you luck, _laatste_ , in your endeavours."

Esmerion bows his head in appreciation, watching as the Gyre spins at its remarkable speed before shooting down a tunnel. The wind does not buffer the youth and he stands tall against the blasting force. Then he turns on his heel and takes off down the tunnel to Trollmarket, paying no mind to the alarming weight on his back, nor the excited cries of Muninn circling the entrance.

With eyes gleaming in anticipation, his feet carry him through the vacant stalls and buildings of Trollmarket, drawing him to a swift halt at the base of the Heartstone. His grinding stone is exactly where he left it, untouched by any hand other than his own. Beside it sits a polished and dented helmet, almost fit for a king; a thought shared by no other beyond himself.

The ground rumbles beneath him with a building roar. Crystals quake in their place. Dust falls from the buildings.

And the youth? Oh, he snarls. Deeper than a wolf and fueled by more hatred than mankind knows.

Angor Rot is here.


	32. Chapter 32

_"When the world bites us, we must bite back twice as hard. If it never yields, neither shall we. That is how we prevail in these times."_

Trolls scream in terror, fleeing the streets in panic. They rampage through Trollmarket with thoughts of massacre staining their minds. 

Esmerion's eyes flare dangerously with embers, glowing in the dark sockets of his helmet. He moves swiftly on instinct, reaching for the weapon on his back without a thought of hindrance. It does not catch on the sheath and slides out with ease, finding its home in the youth's calloused hands as it gleams in the light of nearby crystals.

He snarls lowly in a near silent warning to the one who has yet to unveil his face. The knowledge of his opponent—the soulless slave—is what curdles his blood. It is his awareness of Mordred's twisting words and ways that curls his lip, that sends a rippling chill along his spine.

The Trollhunter speeds past with Toby and Claire at his heels, Blinkous and a Krubera Troll by the name Aaarrrgghh!!! following close behind. There's no doubt that they have chosen to investigate this pressing matter. But Esmerion has a crawling suspicion scuttling down his back.

It's when Draal passes through the main square that he does anything. To his credit, the young Troll doesn't even flinch when the tip of a blade invades his personal bubble.

"Watch yerself out there, _clach-theine_." 

The warrior moves the blade aside with his metal hand, leaning down to meet the eyes of his partner. "I will return from this, _cerddwr coetir_. Vow you will do the same."

Esmerion withdraws his sword and raises a hand to his helmet, unclipping the lower front from the main piece. He wears a sobering expression and his eyes lull into a glittering warmth, free of the feral hatred that has fuelled them. " _Mo ghaol_ , I shall not fall beyond yer reach. I will not go where ye cannot follow."

He smiles softly and lifts a hand to Draal's cheek, drawing his thumb beneath his partner's eye. As the Troll leans into his gentle touch, he bumps his forehead with the male's. 

"I shall see ye at the end of this," he promises, drawing away from his old partner. "Keep Jim safe."

Draal nods shortly, a nearly unnoticeable quirk on his lips as he follows after the group of hasty Trollhunters.

The youth's smile fades, replaced with a scowl of uncertainty that darkens the air around him. He should not have made that promise, he thinks has he snaps the front of the helmet back in place. But it satisfied his partner, and that's enough for him.

Esmerion wields his weapon once again with a growl, watching over the Trolls with a wary eye. He has yet to recognise the foreboding pit in his stomach, though he tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword.

The cavern continues to tremble and quake, pebbles jumping like beans around the youth's feet. Almost as though the ground is screaming in torture, cracks rip open in the rock, engulfing market carts and small clusters of crystals.

Up from these cracks arises creatures of false life, mimicking the fragility with rough movements of their limbs and growling creaks of broken crystal. They snarl at those around them and waste no time in swinging their rocky arms at the defenseless population. Certainly not friendlies.

He moves swiftly, coming up behind one of the creatures with his sword held outstretched in his unbruised hand. No mercy is expressed in his speed, eyes burning with determination as he slashes the crystalline brute through with the steel blade, shattering the animus totem within. The golem crumbles without the source of its creation and falls to the ground in harmless shards.

"Ye will fall today, slave!" he cries with hatred, spinning around to catch a glimpse of the puppet master. "No matter the cost!"

A slight shift in the air makes him whip around with his weapon raised, bringing it to clash with the gleaming daggers of his leering opponent. His eyes narrow dangerously on the Troll and he twists the blade up, weakening the assassin's defense long enough for him to kick his chest and leap backwards. 

Angor stumbles only a little, spinning his blades between his fingers as a malicious grin finds a place on his lips. He circles the youth as a predator does its prey, wary enough that he dares not launch an attack in plain view of his target. It is with a flash of his own magic that he sends a chunk of stone flying toward the male.

Although he senses it, Esmerion does not flinch. Shades of autumn flare around his fingertips and small particles of debris shower his back, blasted apart by his own source of power. His lip curls into a grim smile, dark and twisted in origin.

 _"Mar chruthachadh de Mordred, bu chòir dhut fios a bhith agad gun a bhith a 'dèanamh deuchainn air aon de mo sheòrsa,"_ he snarls, the words quietened by his masking helmet. 

Angor Rot sneers tauntingly, _"Viem, že musíte zomrieť tak, ako to urobili ostatní."_

"Very well," he mutters, readjusting his grip on the great sword.

Then everything goes to absolute hell.

Three Trolls come barreling in with attitudes of arrogance and ignorance, each wielding poorly made weapons of their own. They cry shouts of believed victory and charge the assassin without a second thought, thinking that their combined efforts of little skill will end him.

"No!" Esmerion cries, shrieking as the first assailant is struck down. He's sickened by the echoing crack of the twisting blade in their gut.

The voice of the Trollhunter brings the moment to pause as the soulless assassin looks up at the group of fighters. A sickening grin darkens his features as he laughs coldly, and he tosses an open sack down into a nearby crevasse.

"Trollhunter," Angor sneers, "I have some friends I'd like you to meet."

The youth swears foully as the earth opens further, cracking beneath his feet. There is little time for him as he scrambles for a foothold, his attention on the assassin waning in his rush. To his luck, a golem forms beneath him and he wastes no time in thrusting his blade into the head of the being, twisting it in hopes of destroying the totem inside.

It crumbles under his strength and he tumbles down, stumbling over his sword as he falls to a solid section of ground. He has the misfortune of landing beneath another golem, a sight that he only just recognises by the motion of its arms. On instinct, he rolls between its legs and stops in a crouch, flicking his wrist in a movement that splits the being in two. His hand curls in a tight fist and the totem implodes.

A battle cry brings him face-to-face with the looming figure of the Krubera Troll, his markings radiating a green glow and eyes sharp enough to skewer a soul. He curses adeptly and drops back to the ground, a shower of blue crystal raining on his helmet. Esmerion glances up in surprise, discovering the Troll's fist deep within the chest of a golem. A breath of relief flutters from his lips and he flashes an appreciative look at the raging Troll.

As the being falls apart, Esmerion stands, sword held loosely in one hand. His smile can't be seen but the sense of its existence is clear to read, "Pleasure to see ye on this side o' the fight, Aarghuamont. Ye 'ave me thanks."

The Krubera nods hesitantly, "Aaarrrgghh!!! protect."

He inclines his head quickly before leaping over to Claire, who currently struggles in dodging the massive fists of their opponents. The gleaming blade of his sword slashes at the legs of one golem, knocking it over so he can easily remove its totem. Surprisingly, the girl beats him to it, stabbing the Staff into the crystal until it crumbles entirely.

"Tyler!" She starts in surprise, not expecting him to be standing over the rubble.

The youth shakes his head, wincing as his helmet rattles, "Finish the fight. There shall be time to speak later."

Claire sighs lightly in growing exhaustion but nods in agreement, leaning on the Shadow Staff in her hands. A squawk makes her look up, though she freezes as the owner of the voice lands on her shoulder.

Esmerion whistles sharply and the young bird makes a sound similar to a sigh before taking to the air again. He rolls his eyes lightly and turns away to slash at another golem, crushing its totem in a ball of blazing flame. The colours twirl at his fingertips, encircling his hands with torching glory that might corrupt any other.

Screams of terror and battle rattle the air, bringing too many ancient memories to light, enough that the youth shakes his head to clear the visions. He only requires the practiced strength of his past to do this but it's growing increasingly harder as he continues to push himself toward the limits he has.

A fist flies toward him and he leans back, falling to his knees as he spins his sword over his head and skewers the golem through the chest. The force of the blow topples the being and sends it tumbling into another that had been giving Vendel some difficulty. The elder Troll takes advantage of the moment and knocks the totem from his opponent, crushing it beneath his staff.

Then he turns, and Esmerion watches the world slow to a near stop as the dagger flies. He's already casting magic before he realizes what's happening--a poor attempt to halt the blade. It gleams with poison, glinting with wicked malice as it finds a target.

A short cry slips from his lips and he forces himself to turn away from the horrific sight of Aaarrrgghh!!!'s body turning to stone. He can sense the curdling display of magic without even having to look and it hurts him. His own blade must be used to fix the awful cruelty, if only through the act of aiding those that inhabit this once-peaceful place.

"I destroyed your soul! Your fight is with me! Never them!"

Esmerion snaps his head to find the speaker and the colour drains from his face as he realises who it is. With a scramble of panic, the youth abandons the fight to chase after the Trollhunter and assassin, nearly losing his grip on his sword in the process.

Colourful curses slip from his tongue as flashes of purple light explode in the dark tunnels. He pays no mind to the sparks flying from his blade as it drags along the ground. The only thought on his mind is the vision of his brother falling to the lethal blade of the soulless. He runs faster.

A shout of fear echoes through the cavern, one of his own as his body slams in to the metal grate of the Hero's Forge. He cannot dare to await help, as he can see two figures dancing a deadly line within the active Forge.

"JIM!" He cries frantically, blade slipping from his fingertips as he trades it for attempting to lift the barrier. "JAMES!"

The knowledge of others appearing beside him is lost in his panic, all of his strength and attention focused on his task. He heaves with all his will, tears of fear running down his cheeks as he hoists it. A vision of Jim turning to stone haunts him as he roars, shifting the metal barrier only slightly.

Weakened by both emotion and physical strain, Esmerion collapses against his will, falling almost limp against the barrier. Broken sobs escape his throat and he cries hopelessly. With all the powers in the world, he was never meant to lose another sibling.

A battle cry breaks his blurred daze, drawing his watery eyes up to the three figures within the Hero's Forge. The moment of victory passes by far too quickly for him to register, and he watches dully as the three becomes two.

_"Cerddwr coetir."_

The youth jolts upright at the voice, scrambling to his feet with haste as the barrier slides up. His steps outpace his mind as he sprints toward the figure donned by silver armour, no hesitation lingering in his mind.

He collides with the boy with enough force that they both fall over and he trills softly in glee. Not a moment in the world can replace his relief, his joy of Jim's safety overriding every sensation. The helmet on his head cannot mask his excitement, nor his tears, and so he pulls it off to fully appreciate the life left in the boy.

"I'll bloody kill ye meself next time ye try that," he mutters, resting his head on Jim's shoulder.

The Trollhunter chuckles weakly, a sound cut short as Claire barrels into him with a bone-crushing hug that makes Esmerion wheeze. 

"Angor Rot's finally dead," the youth murmurs softly, only allowing his magic to probe the pile of rocks. He recoils sharply as several blue lights—souls—flutter from the rubble to unite in a globe above their heads.

 _"Finally,"_ one whispers.

_"Our souls are free."_

_"We return to our brethren."_

"What—" Claire stops short at the condescending stare from the youth, "—Who are they?"

The ghostly apparition of a former Trollhunter shimmers within the luminous globe of gentle light, whose gaze lingers upon Esmerion's weak figure. The youth smiles tiredly at him and twitches his chin upward, a motion of requested silence.

"These are the spirits of our fallen brethren," Kanjigar voices distantly. "Trollhunters who lost both soul and life to Angor Rot. Our brothers and sisters shall take their proper place in the void and rest in peace. Thanks to you, James Lake Junior, and your friends. You were right, you are stronger together. We are in your debt. But the day will come, Trollhunter, when you must finish the fight alone."

Draal wanders over in a state of stupor, gaze lost in the appearance of his dead kin, "Father?"

Kanjigar turns to face the young Troll, deep wells of regret in his eyes, "My son. I am so sorry for pushing you away. I am—so proud of you."

"Father..." the warrior reaches for the hand of his parent, eyes widening as the apparition starts to fade. "Father? Father!"

A gentle touch on his arm breaks him from his desperate thoughts and he looks down at the youth leaning on his prosthetic. The offered smile is appreciated and he hugs his partner in thanks, uncaring of the confused stares on them both.

"I said I would," Draal muses somewhat smugly, earning himself a scoff of amusement.

"Aye, ye did," Esmerion snorts, nuzzling into the chest of the Troll. "As did I."

They must have spent quite some time like that, for when they broke apart, no-one is remaining in the Forge. A chill has settled over the cavern, one of unease and regret. The Troll warrior appears oblivious to it, frowning only as his partner visibly flinches from the atmosphere.

The youth scowls in confusion and sourly rubs his chest. Something within him is crying in panic, in horror. It does not settle with him that all is silent.

**"For the Doom of Gunmar, Eclipse is mine to command!"**

Esmerion cries out in desperation, feet running before he can even come to recognize the movement. The chain mail he bears feels a hundred times heavier, his speed not nearly enough for his wishes. He _must_ do something.

The sight of the locked vault door alarms him, the friends banging on the outside pressing that alarm into terror. And so it is with all his remaining strength that he channels his magic in to the locks, the doors sliding open before he even reaches it.

He does not allow for himself to slow despite his forced weariness, and only pushes himself harder, dodging between the group as they descend the stairs. Jim is so close. He is so far.

The boy glances backward for a brief moment, contemplation in his gaze before he returns to the task. There's an air of determination that surrounds him, guilt evident in his stance. Then he steps forward without hesitation, foot deep within the portal.

"Jim!" his brother cries, and a hand latches around his wrist.

The cries of horror are deafening as the portal seals shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! If you have any theories, I'd love to hear them. Have a good day!


End file.
